


The Magic in Mischief

by shiverfawkes



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Amortentia, Angst, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gryffindor John Watson, Gryffindor Lestrade, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Pining John, Potterlock, Quidditch, Ravenclaw Sherlock, Slytherin Mycroft, Teenlock, matchmaking mystrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2019-08-20 19:40:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 65,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16562027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiverfawkes/pseuds/shiverfawkes
Summary: The Ravenclaw that faltered the Sorting HatThe Gryffindor with an incredible memoryThe stone-faced Slytherin prefect with a yearning heartThe Gryffindor seeker that's drowning in the legacy





	1. The Boy that Faltered the Sorting Hat

Mycroft Holmes sighed, straightening his robes as he patrolled the carriages.

As a prefect it was his job to check down the carriages every half hour, well, it was his hour, the other hours were taken by other prefects.

Truth be told he was searching for his closer acquaintances to see if they had a spare space in their carriage, though he was partially checking to see if his little brother was wreaking havoc yet.

Not wreaking havoc, instead he was crouched by a wall in between the compartments. His head buried in his knees, with dark brown curls hiding his face. He wasn’t crying, he was thinking, panicking.

Taking in a soft breath he knelt in front of his brother. “Sherlock, what’s the matter?” He asked, knowing fine rightly what it was but he’d rather Sherlock told him. Sherlock had been irritable from the moment he’d woken Mycroft up that morning.

Sherlock didn’t look up, knowing who it was. “What if I'm not a Slytherin?” He asked, his voice muffled from his robes.

“Do you want to be in Slytherin?” Mycroft asked.

“I don’t _know_.” Sherlock moaned, his fists clenched with his arms wrapped around his legs. “Won’t you get laughed at if I'm not? Surely it’ll be disappointing.”

“Brother mine, I will be proud no matter where you belong. The sorting hat would never put you anywhere you don’t want, Lockie.” Mycroft spoke, placing a hand on Sherlocks knee. “Now, get up, and find a compartment.” The kindness in his tone falling away into an order.

Sherlock stood up, wiping his nose on his sleeve and Mycroft rolled his eyes at the twelve-year-old, watching him go before continuing to walk down the carriage when a knock on of the glass doors startled him, he physically recoiled in shock, before relaxing, realising what it was.

Greg Lestrade was grinning through the glass at him, knocking the glass and saying something too muffled for Mycroft to hear, and he rolled his eyes opening the door.

“Mate we’ve been waiting for you, sit down!” He spoke excitedly, as Mycroft took the seat opposite him, beside another Slytherin he’d come to know as Anthea, and a Hufflepuff by the name of Sally Donovan.

“I’ve had other matters to attend to, namely an annoying younger sibling.” Mycroft replied, his posh London accent a stark contrast to Greg’s cockney drawl. “How was your summer Gregory?” He asked in an attempt to be amiable.

“Went alright, spent most of it with my muggle mates.” He replied. “They always get at me for being away.”

“I suppose it can’t be helped.”

“Yeah, felt good to play some proper football, though it can’t compare to quidditch-“ Mycroft offered a small smile as Greg talked animatedly about his summer, the small holiday his dad managed to drag him on and the mischief he and his friends got up to. “How was your summer Myc?” Greg asked, considering nobody else cared to. Both Sally Donovan and Anthea being muggle-borns they were latching onto their last moments of freedom to use their phones in peace.

“It was satisfactory, I’ve made some progress with my garden since you last saw it. My fanged roses are coming along nicely.”

Greg laughed, shaking his head. “That’s comforting.”

“Indeed.”

Comfortable silence swept over the compartment, Mycroft stole the occasional glance at Greg, who didn’t seem to notice, too busy shuffling the deck of muggle playing cards he’d brought with him. Mycroft made a note to ask him to play before they got to Hogwarts.

His hair had gone greyer over the summer, the messy tufts salt and pepper on his head. Mycroft found it cute, well, he thought it _suited_ Greg. The word cute was one he’d rather keep out of his immediate vernacular. It was certainly more attractive then the swept back ginger curls he had atop his own head.

Soon enough they were in the castle, bustling with first years, Sherlock among them somewhere. Knowing his brother, he was probably sulking at the back with Hagrid, no doubt trying to deduce the half-giant.

He parted ways with his friends, following the rest of his snake housed family. They didn’t like him very much, despite being a pureblood, though not many people cared about blood status anymore. He supposed it was because he kept himself well in line, and only spoke out when he disagreed, though those were just theories. It didn’t bother him much anyway, Lestrade always kept him a seat at the Gryffindor table, so he was never really alone.

He met Lestrade in their fourth year.

Lestrade was the Gryffindor seeker. Mycroft had first bumped into him on a rainy day, those were his favourite types of days to walk the grounds, umbrella in hand, a book of some sort usually in the other as he strolled along listening to the drops pelt the umbrella. Nobody else to bother him.

He’d been doing so when a muddy figure on a broom touched down to land, the snitch in hand, and he shoved it back into the box with the other balls.

He noticed the ginger boy and offered him a sheepish grin. “Alright?” He called over to Mycroft who was staring at him in confusion.

“Yes, are you?”

The boy grinned at him, picking up the case before walking over, keeping a distance in his muddy kit. “Yeah, not too bad. Extra practice, Johnstone lets me.”

“Are you any good?” Mycroft asked and the boy rolled his eyes. Mycroft could tell he was clearly dedicated, his nose red from the cold, his hands calloused from a lack of gloves and his hair wind-swept from being up so long.

“I'm getting better, I'm not a Potter by any means, but I'm decent.” He offered a nervous smile.

“Mycroft Holmes.”

“Greg Lestrade.”

Mycroft took a step closer, so the umbrella was covering them both, but Greg just laughed, stepping out from under it, and Mycroft could have slapped himself for being so stupid, seemingly he’d lost all his rationality within the five minutes he’d met this boy.

“Save your brolly mate, I'm drenched as it is.” Lestrade replied, but the smile on his face told Mycroft he appreciated the gesture.

It ended up a routinely thing, Greg working himself up over the Gryffindor Seeker legacy to the point he would cram in all his free time with extra practice, and Mycroft coming to walk him back into the castle. His calm tone could untense a frustrated Lestrade in minutes, maybe even coax a laugh out of him with each crude deduction that fell from his lips as they walked through the halls.

Two years on and they were still doing it.

Greg was Mycroft’s only friend.

He gave the Gryffindor a curt nod as he sat at the Slytherin table for the first years to be sorted.

Mycroft zoned out for the most part occasionally clicking back into the real world and finding mediocre fun in deducing what house the child would be before the sorting hat had, though he wasn’t always right.

“Holmes, Sherlock.” Professor McGonagall asked from the front of the hall.

Mycroft looked up, his interest gained now, as he watched his little brother walk to the front of the hall. He was taller than most of the others in his year, skinnier too. His darker curls and nose drastically different, now brought attention to Mycroft.

He rolled his eyes as those in his house turned to look at him, instead chose to focus on his brother.

Sherlock made eye contact with him for a split second before staring at the back of the hall.

The hat muttered to itself, muttered to Sherlock, who paid it no mind, still staring straight ahead.

Seconds passed, then turned to minutes.

Now people were starting to mumble, Sherlock didn’t care, still staring straight ahead. Mycroft didn’t either, staring straight at Sherlock. He ignored the whispers directed to him from those at his table. He ignored the mutterings from the other tables, wondering why it was taking so long for the hat to decide.

What the hell was Sherlock playing at?

Then it hit him.

Sherlock didn’t know what he wanted, and the sorting hat didn’t know where to put him. He had the bravery of a Gryffindor, the cunning of a Slytherin and the wisdom of a Ravenclaw, yet no idea which he was more partial to. Mycroft was surprised that the hat hadn’t had a stroke yet.

They could be here for days.

He resisted the urge to smile to himself, and he’d never admit it, but he was quite impressed.

Finally, after enough deliberating and muttering to itself, the hat perked up again. “Oh, thank god- RAVENCLAW!” An applause went up from the blue table, and Mycroft too found himself clapping. Ravenclaw suited Sherlock, somehow more than the others, though Mycroft had little to no doubt that it was due to the colours over anything else.

Sherlock broke his stare against the back wall, glancing at Mycroft immediately. Mycroft smiled at him, nodding in some form of brotherly approval.

Sherlock didn’t speak a word, his expression was left unchanging as he walked down off the steps, taking a seat at the Ravenclaw table.

“Well, we have a new placeholder for the longest time taken to be sorted.” McGonagall spoke, offering a nod in Sherlock’s direction, but the boy didn’t respond, his stare now fixated elsewhere. If Mycroft was correct, he was staring at a second year with fair hair, sitting at the Gryffindor table.

Mycroft managed to catch him, in the crowd of Ravenclaws being brought to the dormitories. He nodded to Victor. “I need to talk to him, I’ll bring him up don’t worry.” He spoke, and Victor nodded back at him continuing to lead the groups, taking his turn to inform them of the history of the paintings.

“That was quite the show you put on. You’ve always had a flair for the dramatic.” Mycroft spoke, as the staircases changed, and he led his little brother a different route to the commons.

Sherlock fiddled with his hands, opting to shove them in the pockets of his robes. “So, you aren’t annoyed?”

“Not in the slightest, brother mine. Ravenclaw suits you. Mummy will be sure to send you a scarf in the post.” He tried not to smile at the small look of joy that took over Sherlocks face at the idea. Silence overcame them, as they walked side by side, before they reached the door to the Ravenclaw commons. Mycroft turned to face the younger boy, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Try not to immediately get expelled, come to me if you’re considering, and the boy you were staring at is John Watson.”

“I wasn’t-“

“Pine fresh.” Mycroft cut him off, and the door swung open, before he turned on his heel, walking to the Gryffindor commons.

It wasn’t surprising to find a Gryffindor in the Hufflepuff commons, or a Ravenclaw in the Gryffindor commons. However, people seemed still surprised as he walked into the Gryffindor common room, Gregory had been kind enough to tell him the password.

He sat at one of the tables in the communal areas, opposite Greg who immediately dealt him a hand of cards without batting an eye.

“So how does this game work Lestrade?” Another boy asked, Anderson, if Mycroft remembered correctly. He was a pureblood Gryffindor, and was currently inspecting the cards, holding them up to the dim lighting of the room. “Is it like exploding snap?” He asked.

“Muggle cards are free from demolition Phil.” Greg’s face lit up as Mycroft turned to look at him, before realising his mistake. “Simplest game I know is jack-change-it.”

Anderson laughed, handing his cards back to Greg. “Sounds boring, no offence.”

“None taken.” Greg nodded, watching the Gryffindor leave to join his other friends in the room. Mycroft could tell he was upset, so he tapped his cards against the table, to catch Greg’s attention again.

The grey-haired teenager looked at him confused, so he lifted his hand, waving it a little to emphasise his point.

“Teach me how to play, Gregory.”

The smile on Greg’s face made it worth enduring the tiresome repetition that most muggle games relied on.

 

**

 

Sherlock had successfully now found a way to shut the mouths of his housemates, need they say anything nasty to him. A scathing deduction about each he’d seen, kept away in a box in his head come the time he’d have to use them. Like Christmas decorations, but a lot more contemptuous

It takes the edge off the insult if he can fire one back. Especially if it’s a lot harsher than something as simple as “freak” or “psycho”.

He hadn’t yet mastered deducing people on the spot, it always took a minute or two to study them before he got anything of use or matter.

A few people in his year tried to talk to him, but he didn’t pay them much attention, instead choosing to pull his knees to his chest and study those around him.

Some of the older boys gave him a metaphorical clap on the back, congratulating him and asking him how he’d done the thing with the sorting hat. He wasn’t entire sure why they were talking about it, it wasn’t unlikely that Mycroft had had a similar experience.

He didn’t do it on purpose, he just picked a point to look at before wandering through his mind-palace, trying to find any indication he had on what house he’d prefer. Flashes of red, and blue and green, the traits of each floating around in his head.

The hat’s muttering didn’t help much.

In the end it came down to something as simple as what colour he liked better, which was the rich navy blue of the Ravenclaw house.

The moment he thought the word, the hat yelled it out.

However, the moment he sat down at the table he almost regretted not choosing Gryffindor, as a fair haired second-year boy across the tables, caught his eye. He was muttering something to the person beside him, and Sherlock cursed his inability to read lips, but he could’ve sworn the boy said something about his name.

He dropped his gaze before he was caught, and instead went to staring at his hands, cracking his knuckles as a distraction from everything else. The noise. The _people_.

If he’d had his way he would have been here three years ago, but Mummy said that he had to go when he got his letter, just as his older brother did.

He had to do everything like Mycroft did. Damn him for being so good at everything. But Sherlock would never let him know that that’s what he thought.

His transfiguration was at third-year level, as were most of his other subjects. The only thing he couldn’t do was fly on a broom, but he wasn’t too fussed about that anyway. He’d rather dedicate his time to something more productive or useful, such as learning to be an animagus, or practicing his charms. He was currently working on one that could silence somebody in a matter of casting it.  

Yet still on his mind was that second-year boy, flashing through his head, and this time he was unable to remove it, deleting it wasn’t something he _wanted_ to. This was new.

John Watson? That was his name wasn’t it?

John, yes, it suited him. Sherlock could tell by the way he squinted slightly as he looked up at the first-years being sorted, that he needed glasses, but didn’t like to wear them.

Sherlock could imagine how nice he looked in them, the frames would probably be dark, to contrast his hair. His hair, fair and short, unlike Sherlock’s own curls, dark and almost to his shoulders. He could imagine John asking to run his hand through it, unlike everyone else that just ruffled the curls without restraint.

Sinking his head into his knees he sighed. Why was this _John,_ sticking in his head?

He didn’t understand.

“First years to the dormitory, lights out is in ten minutes.” One of the house prefects, Victor was his name if Sherlock remembered rightly, called out.

Sighing softly, he dropped his arms from around his legs, and followed the other boys up to the dorm.

They gave him a few strange looks, he was taller than most of them but undoubtedly weighed less, whether that was from lack of appetite or fast metabolism, nobody knew.

Most of the other boys pulled their curtains around their bed, as they decided to succumb to sleep. He scoffed at them silently, staring up at his ceiling until he heard the prefects go up to bed.

Sitting up, he glanced around the dorm. There were a few cages set atop dressers, ranging from rats to cats, though he’d advised the owners of said animals, to pick beds on opposite sides of the room.

He didn’t have a pet, a familiar of sorts, he wanted one. He wanted an owl, they were mysterious, sleek and simplistically attractive. Mummy didn’t like them, and Mycroft refused him, so he was left without one.

He found it unfair that Mycroft was offered a rat or a toad and didn’t take it, but when he wanted something as simple as an owl he wasn’t allowed.

His skin prickled at the cold as it swept over his bare arms, so he grabbed his dressing gown from the foot of his bed, slipping his feet into his slippers and walking down the staircase silently. If he was honest with himself, this was around the time he’d usually make a cup of tea, have a row with the photographs, run an experiment.

Now he couldn’t.

The house elves were in the kitchen, probably resting. Even if he wanted to run the risk of getting in trouble on his first day there, he didn’t know where the hell the kitchens were anyway.

If only there was a way to ask Mycroft.

“Stupid.” He muttered to himself, he could hardly rely on Mycroft for _everything_ , he could handle himself just fine. He was twelve years old now for crying out loud.

Mycroft was seventeen, he was nearly an adult for Christ’s sake he could do practically anything his heart desired. Well Mycroft didn’t have a heart, just an empty cavity where one should be. Here was Sherlock some snot-nosed kid chasing after him, hoping he would answer his every beck and call.

If Mycroft did this all without help, so could he.

“Yeah. I don’t need Mycroft.” He spoke quietly to himself, pushing himself up and deciding that he would sleep, maybe an hour would do him alright considering he couldn’t obtain the caffeine he needed to sufficiently keep himself awake.

He flopped back into his bed, none of the other boys seemed to stir, typical.

And that was his last thought before his eyes fell shut and sleep took over his body. 

 

**

 

John Watson sat on the train, staring out the window, as families bid each other goodbye, and friends reunited.

It was his second year at Hogwarts and he still couldn’t believe that he was allowed to be here. That he could escape his wretched excuse for a family for the whole year.

Being a muggle-born, in a household that was just shy of abusive, it was a surprise, to say the least, when a giant man knocked on his door and dragged him through the streets of London and into a place he’d never seen or heard of before.

His letter had been discarded by his father, in a drunken state of thoughtlessness.

His mother knew he was a wizard, it didn’t help that she was the only one to know now she was gone. John wasn’t entirely sure how she knew either, he supposed maybe it was from the time he’d made the kettle boil when it wasn’t turned on, or from the time he melted the slide at the park when nobody would let him play. She’d managed by negotiation to exchange some of her savings, so he’d have enough to get what he needed when the time came for him to get a proper wizarding education.

She’d been gone for three years, and she was still taking him to school.

Harry didn’t believe him, he honestly didn’t blame her. Despite the fact that he’d been gone the entire year, and they hadn’t anywhere near the money for him to go to a boarding school, she still didn’t get it. For the most part she didn’t take interest in him when he came home, but he nearly shit himself when she found his wand, waving it about and teasing him for it. He knew wands were only meant for one person, but he wasn’t sure that she couldn’t do any damage with it, having the small potential to be a squib. She didn’t find it so funny when her hair caught fire.

“John, mind if I sit?” A boy he knew by the name of Mike Stamford asked, peeking his head through the glass door.

“Be my guest.” John replied simply. “How was your summer?” He asked, barely even trying to sound interested.

Outside the window a family caught his eye. A tall ginger boy, presumably a sixth or seventh year, standing aside his little brother, or so John presumed. They didn’t look anything alike, the younger had dark brown curls, that contrasted his pale skin, his nose was considerably less prominent than his elder’s and John couldn’t quite make out his eyes. John would’ve said they were in the same year had it not been that John hadn’t seen him during the past year.

The mother and father of the two boys were bidding them farewell, the elder nodded, and the younger did nothing, simply walking to board the train.

“How was your summer John?” Stamford asked, the mention of his name bringing him back to the conversation, and he looked back to face him, realising in silent horror that he hadn’t been listening.

“Oh uh, it was fine.” He spoke abruptly but by the time he looked back the family were gone. “Sorry,” He began turning back to Stamford. “I'm just tired.” He forced out a laugh, and the other boy was none the wiser.

He was quite relieved that he could sit back and watch the new first-years be sorted, rather than having to live through the pressure of being watched by the others, and then judged by a talking hat. Deciding he was going to be as welcoming as possible to any new Gryffindors, he relaxed in his seat as the names were called, joining in in the applause every time a new Gryffindor was sorted.

“Holmes, Sherlock.” McGonagall called, and the boy John at seen earlier walked up to the chair, sitting in it and staring ahead like he hadn’t a nerve in his body.

Sherlock Holmes.

What type of a name was Sherlock Holmes?

If he was honest with himself, he’d say it was quite a pretty name, elegant, and simple. Which was fitting for the holder of it.

He shook his head and sat up to watch properly. A house hadn’t been called yet, that was odd, and his interest had been grabbed.

“Is something wrong?” He asked quietly to the person beside him, who simply shrugged, just as clueless as him, and turned back to watch.

The hat had taken all but a few moments when he’d been sorted a year ago, muttering something about Hufflepuff and bravery before yelling out Gryffindor, to which the house of red cheered for him.

But it seemed to be struggling with this particular first-year.

Th time dragged out, all of which, the boy on the stool spent staring straight ahead, his eyes vacant as if he wasn’t present in his own body.

Finally, the hat grumbled before bellowing out that Sherlock was in Ravenclaw, and the first-year stood up, his expression unchanging as he walked to sit with his house group. Though his eyes seemed to regain their life, as if his soul had re-entered, they were a seafoam green, incredibly striking.

John turned to Stamford, who was sitting beside him, casting one last glance to the first year before speaking. “D’you reckon his name is _actually_ Sherlock?” He spoke, as the next few were being sorted.

“You know Mycroft? He’s a prefect in Slytherin.” John caught on remembering vaguely the looming ginger figure that seemed to avoid the rules yet simultaneously abide them to the letter. He nodded, gesturing for Mike to continue. “He’s a Holmes as well, they’re brothers, not that they look it. Suppose strange names are a family trait.”

“Funny.” John muttered, turning his head to Sherlock a last time. The brunette was staring at his hands, body tensed and eyes in the same vacant expression they’d been in when the hat was on his head. It’s like he wasn’t there, asleep or off in another world, he didn’t even flinch when the applause went up for the next person.

Odd, John thought to himself, breaking his gaze before he was caught.

Sherlock Holmes was odd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd just like to say, that I know absolutely fuck all about Harry Potter.   
> I didn't read past the fourth book, didn't watch past the fourth film.   
> If I get shit wrong, please be nice.   
> Thank you!


	2. The Long-Distance Crush

Mycroft was getting sick of it.

Every day. Every damn day. Breakfast, lunch, dinner.

Everyday, Sherlock stole glances at the fair-haired Gryffindor that, as Mycroft had found through Anthea, was named John Watson.

It was pathetic, this staring of his. Either he needed to get John Watson out of the picture, or to put him in the picture more prominently. Anything to stop his brother drooling over him like some kind of doting fan.

Christmas was quickly approaching, knowing Sherlock, he wouldn’t go home much to Mummy and Father’s distress. John Watson was a muggle-born, clearly of an unwelcoming household, so it was unlikely he would be returning home on the holidays either.

Mycroft walked into the Gryffindor commons, he seemed to spend more conscious time in there than his own houses common room. Greg was sitting in his usual spot at the table, shuffling cards, an anxious habit he seemed to have. He glanced up noticing Mycroft’s presence as he sat down, a small smile lighting up his features. He liked that the Gryffindor’s mood seemed to lighten when he was around, for most other people the opposite was true. But yet either a smile or a wave or a small nod was given by Greg, even when simply passing one another in the halls.

There were prominent bags under his eyes, he hadn’t been sleeping enough, Mycroft suspected it a few days ago but the dark circles only confirmed his theory.

Dampness clung to his hair, signifying that he’d just come back from a shower after Quidditch practice. The winter game was coming up soon and there was a lot of pressure on Greg to do well, he nearly missed the snitch in their last game.

Mycroft never went to the quidditch matches, he liked the quiet he could get in the commons when everyone was gone. So he generally heard the outcome from whispers around the school or from Gregory himself.

“Gregory, do you know a John Watson?” He asked, taking the hand of cards the half-blood dealt him.

Greg furrowed his eyebrows. “Uh yeah, why?”

“What’s he like, personality wise?” Mycroft asked, enjoying the annoyed hum that fell from Greg’s lips as he was forced to pick up two cards.

“He’s our keeper, best one we’ve had since Wood, hell if he isn’t dedicated. He broke his arm our first match to save what would’ve been the winning goal. Nice lad too, muggle-born, he really seems to care about the team.” Lestrade replied. “Pick up two.” He added, and Mycroft rolled his eyes, taking the cards. “Why d’you want to know?”

“I believe my brother is…” He paused struggling to find the words, as he placed the ace of hearts, much to Greg’s chagrin. “ _Fawning_ , over him.”

Greg snorted. “You mean he fancies him? A Holmes has a crush?”

Mycroft attempted to ignore the comment, feeling heat rush to his cheeks. “Yes, I _do_ believe that’s what I mean.”

“So, what’s your game plan?” Lestrade asked, catching Mycroft in his stare, the deep brown piercing the prefects icy blue.

Mycroft blinked breaking their unannounced staring contest, directing his focus to his cards, clearing his throat. “I’ll go after John, if you go after Sherlock. I propose we set up a study date, and if things don’t go well, then Sherlock will stop staring like a lovesick schoolgirl.”

Greg would have to speak to Sherlock, as the first-year seemed to be making a conscious effort to avoid Mycroft for a reason he couldn’t deduce outside of a pre-teen mood-swing. Besides it would be too obvious if Mycroft brought it up to him anyway.

“And if things _do_ go well?”

“Then Sherlock will have a friend.” He paused, noticing the look Greg was giving him. “At the very least.” He added, throwing his cards into the deck as Lestrade placed his last card down. This seemed to be the only game Greg could beat him at. 

“Fine, but you’ll owe me one.”

“The horror.” Mycroft gasped dramatically, and the Gryffindor laughed.

“Oi!”

“I'm joking, Gregory. I was planning to go to Hogsmeade before the holidays are out, I’ll buy you a drink.” Mycroft offered, and Greg nodded, shoving the cards back in their box with care. He was unsure as to why, but he knew the cards were important to the other boy.

“Drag me anywhere near Puddifoots and I’ll shank you.”

Mycroft covered his mouth to hide a laugh at Greg’s bluntness. “Christ, don’t insult me, I do have taste you know.”

“I’ll buy my own drink if you do something else for me instead?” The half-blood countered, and Mycroft raised an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth quirking up in amusement.

“Hm?”

It was apparent that Greg was now nervous, as he bit his lip before asking. “Uh, this might sound gay or whatever, but would you come to the match? I know you don’t like them much but I uh… It’d mean a lot to me if you did.” A soft blush came over his face as he spoke, and he turned his attention to his cards again, as if that would stop the other boy from noticing.

“I suppose I could drag myself if it would make you happy.” Mycroft smirked, clasping his hands together. “I want to see you win though.”

“Thanks, Myc. No promises though.”

“Dull.”

“You could bet. Might add some thrill to it.” Greg spoke, beginning a game he’d explained to Mycroft was called solitaire, laying out a row of seven cards in front of himself. “I heard Jim, in fourth year, has a secret betting ring and that Adler won big on the last match. Though I suppose that may be too scandalous for a prefect.” He grinned as Mycroft scowled at him.

Mycroft should probably have been concerned about that, but he was usually quite lenient on rule breaking so long as nobody was harmed. Besides it wasn’t as if they could prove he knew if they ended up catching the fourth year. “I don’t know, I may be biased.”

“A Holmes? Biased? Are you feeling alright?”

“Well if this John Watson is as good as you say he is I suppose you have a fighting chance.” He rolled his eyes, smiling softly as Greg tossed the six of clubs at him, glaring. “Oh shut up, you know I think you’re good.”

“Damn straight.”

 

**

 

Sherlock was surprised when Lestrade approached him in the library.

He’d seen the older boy around the castle a few times, usually with his brother or on the quidditch field. Just by studying him for a few moments he’d learned a few things about him. He knew that he was Mycroft’s secret boyfriend and that he was seeker on the Gryffindor quidditch team, he also knew that his first name began with a G, though he never cared enough to remember the rest, and that despite not paying much attention to it, he was quite self-conscious that his hair had gone grey.

“You’re Sherlock aren’t you?” He asked, taking a seat opposite the first-year, who looked at him quizzically. “Myc’s little brother yeah?”

Sherlock quirked up an eyebrow, so _that’s_ what he called him. “Myc?” He asked, smirking as a blush formed on the older boys cheeks.

“Mycroft, Mycroft Holmes.”

“Yes, I am unfortunate enough to call him brother. Is that all?” Sherlock replied, unamused at this point and keen to get back to reading.

“I heard you’re really good at transfiguration, one of my mates, he’s struggling quite a bit with it, would you give him a hand?”

Sherlock frowned, rolling his eyes and turning back to his book. “I don’t do tutoring, and unfortunately my transfiguration is only fourth-year level, so it wouldn’t be much use anyway.” He muttered distractedly, in the way that aggravated Mummy and Father so much ( _oh do speak up Sherry!)._

Lestrade laughed, propping his elbows up on the table. “No, he’s not in my year, he’s in the year above you, John Watson? You might know him.”

Sherlock glanced up at that.

John Watson. There was a name he knew quite well. The only reason he knew Lestrade played quidditch in the first place was because he went to the matches to see John play.

Sherlock didn’t know much about the sport, but he knew John was quite good for a second-year, everybody said so. He was quite stupid too, considering he’d broken his arm to save a goal. To be fair to him, he could’ve broken a lot more than just his arm, but he’d angled his body correctly so to injure himself minimally.

That was what impressed him.

John _was_ clever. Certainly not as clever as him, the second-year could barely thicken a Hiccoughing Potion. But he had moments of pure brilliance and was the only one other than him to score one hundred in the written test.  

Everybody else seemed to rely so much on their casting, and he’d seen John try to cast spells to no avail, he’d seen the boy nearly snap his wand in frustration because he just _couldn’t_ do it.

But he was nearly certain that John Watson had a memory spell put on him as a child.

He’d never had the courage to talk to him or ask him to be his friend. He thought he was far past that childish age in which that question was acceptable to ask.

Now Sherlock’s interest was grabbed, he closed the book, setting it on the table and clasping his hands. “When and where?”

“Here, around two, next Saturday. It’ll be after quidditch practice.” Lestrade asked, his expression smug but the excitement and anxiety creeping up Sherlock’s spine was enough distraction for him to ignore it.

“Practice ends at half past one.” He spoke quickly, almost cursing himself for seeming insistent, desperate might have been the word.

“Well unless you want him smelling like dirt and sweat, it’ll have to be two, mate.”

Sherlock nodded, standing up as he needed a cup of tea, so he could read the book in peace. “Right, will that be all?”

“Yeah, Myc says hi by the way.”

“Mycroft doesn’t greet people like that, but nice try Gavin.”

“It’s Greg.”

“Okay, Gavin.” Sherlock tied his scarf, walking out of the library with the charms book under his arm, and a pleased grin barely hidden in his features.

 

**

 

John Watson was quite surprised when a lanky ginger prefect decided to loom over him in the Gryffindor common room. He was minding his own business, trying to get better at using the stupid feather quill that had been on his list, and that every teacher insisted he used. It felt stupid when he had a biro in pocket, but they refused to let him use it.

Nobody else was up, it was late, and he was trying desperately to get better, despite the shakiness in his hands from the cold of the room. He had a written test for Charms in the morning, and Flitwick, despite his cheery nature, was starting to get sick of him tearing through his paper with the pen nib.

He quite liked Professor Flitwick, he taught well and made lessons exciting, and he was one of the only teachers who didn’t get annoyed at him. John had an excellent memory, he studied hard, and anything written, he could excel in. Practical was where he failed catastrophically.

Sometimes he wasn’t sure he was even a wizard, but anytime he thought that, McGonagall seemed to know, and reminded him that he’d been given a letter, that the hat had sorted him, and that he was the best keeper they’d had since Oliver Wood.

He wasn’t sure how much he believed her on that last one, but he appreciated the compliment nonetheless.

So, considering the Professor had been patient with him, he was exerting some effort to try and improve.

“Can I help you?” He asked, trying his best not to seem intimidated or rude, but he would much prefer to keep the way ink spat from his nip every time he tried to write, to himself.

The prefect took a seat, his face coming into view, lit dimly by the candlelight, and it became apparent that it was Mycroft Holmes. He was known for being brutal, and John had seen him in the commons before, he seemed to hang about with Greg. “My brother, Sherlock, he’s in your potions class.” He spoke simply, and with a wave of his wand he lit the fire in the commons, but no words left his mouth.

John wasn’t sure how he hadn’t heard him come in, or how he managed to get up from the Slytherin commons without Mrs Norris crying - or meowing rather – wolf to Filch. But still, there he was. And John tried to force the unease in his stomach back down before he replied.

John furrowed his brow. “Is he?”

He could’ve sworn he would have noticed something like that, then again he was too busy sweating nervously under Snape’s glare to look around the classroom.

Mycroft lifted his hands, pressing his fingertips together in a particularly evil look fashion, and John struggled to contain a smile or laugh. He looked like a Bond villain. “Yes. He’s struggling, much to his chagrin, unfortunately he’d rather throw himself to the depths of the forbidden forest than have to be moved down. I hate to ask on his behalf but he’s stubborn, would you help him?”

“How do you expect me to help him?” John wanted to add that he sucked at most things that weren’t quidditch, but he was intrigued. Considering he’d never spoken to Mycroft in his life, yet the older boy knew his name, John assumed he already knew that he was pretty dim. But yet he decided to ask anyway, and John couldn’t help but feel there was more to it than just study help. Besides, Sherlock was quite interesting, he at least wanted to ask how he’d confused the sorting hat.

“He’s missing work that’s dragging him down, I don’t doubt the issue is simply that he needs to copy your notes. If you wouldn’t mind.” Somehow, judging by his tone, the younger boy deduced that he didn’t really have a choice in the matter.

John breathed out in relief, his notes were the only thing Professor Snape praised him on, considering he was useless in the practical aspect of potions. He supposed he’d also make a good practicals assistant, considering he’d all but memorised the ingredients for the ones they were learning. “Alright, when and where? I have quidditch practice too by the way.” John replied matter-of-factly.

“I know. Two o’clock on Saturday at the library.”

“Got it.” John replied, lifting the feathered pen up again.

“That’s not how you hold a quill.”

John rolled his eyes.


	3. The Near Death and the Almost Heart-attack

Mycroft stood in the cold, amongst the bustling students in the raised bleachers, anticipating the war between Hufflepuff and Gryffindor that was about to take place on the quidditch field. The crowd he was swarmed by had his anxiety racing, but he braced himself against the front barrier and tried to steady his breathing, because he wasn’t here by choice, he was here for Greg. What concerned him most was that whilst he was here because he owed the Gryffindor, he also _wanted_ to watch him play.

His eyes scanned the crowds, trying to read them and their motives as a means of easing the tension in his throat. Some of them looked utterly ridiculous, faces painted with the colours of their house, signs made to support their favourite team member. Somehow it seemed to bring warmth to his chest to see everyone so riled up and excited.

“Sentiment, Mycroft.” He muttered to himself, a mutter that went unnoticed by the buzzing crowd.

To his utmost surprise, Sherlock was there also, Mycroft presumed his study date with John Watson had gone well, considering there wasn’t a reason for him to be here otherwise.

The loud sonorous call of the announcer bellowed out across the bleachers, and the two teams drew out onto the field.

Greg locked eyes with him in a matter of seconds, and he offered a gentle wave to the seeker who smiled in response. Mycroft could see from miles away that he was tense, scared, nervous. He felt under pressure. But Mycroft knew just as well that he would notice the snitch and go for it with his all.

Sherlock had his gaze trained to John, who was taking his place in front of the goal hoops. Unsurprisingly, John initiated the greeting, raising a hand in a calm wave, but to Mycroft’s disbelief Sherlock nodded back at him, smiling softly.

To his knowledge that was the first time his little brother had smiled since arriving at the school, or perhaps his eyes around the castle were losing sight, he’d have to check up on that.

Against his best efforts he found himself gripping the bar as the match aged further, and people were tiring out, leaning so fa forward he could have fallen off the edge, straining just to make sure he didn’t miss anything. Greg was breath-taking in the air, his hair pulled back when he flew against the wind.

He didn’t have the best broom in the world, but it was decent. That didn’t matter in the slightest when he was such a good player.

Mycroft noticed it before he did, but he was quick on the draw and soared quickly toward the snitch, flittering near the enemy goal.

The Slytherin nearly cried out in horror as a bludger came just shy of knocking Greg off his broom. Even he was shocked by that reaction, but shook it off just as Greg did, and recalibrated his entire body before he refocused.

Mycroft could see the terror radiate through his body as he realised he’d lost sigh of the snitch. Quickly his eyes darted around the field, not to find the snitch, but to find the other seeker. The Hufflepuff hadn’t seen it either, and Greg took a breath, before flying higher to survey the field.

“It helps me think I guess. When the commotion is below me, I can focus. I’m lucky I can see well.” He’d laughed when Mycroft had asked him. The prefect smiled fondly at the memory, eyes still on Greg as he gaged the match.

Their eyes met again, but this time he gave more than just a smile, he raised a hand above his head and made a fist. He couldn’t help but grin in response as Greg mimicked his action, before his hand met the broom again and he propelled his entire body down as he practically became one with the stick.

People gasped as they watched him, his broom was practically vertical to the ground, the commentator was screaming, now the match was all on Greg, the Hufflepuff seeker, heading in a similar direction but clearly clueless as to where the snitch was.

Mycroft held his breath. Greg knew what he was doing, Greg knew what he was doing, Greg knew what he was doing.

Before he hit the ground head on, he threw his entire body back, yanking the broom up to carry the momentum of the fall. The Hufflepuff seeker would have crashed into him had he not pulled up then, instead the Hufflepuff skidded along the ground before she fell off, skipping along the grass like a stone on water.

But nobody cared.

Because Greg was flying straight up so fast Mycroft was surprised he was still holding on. He was holding a hand out in front of him, straight toward the flying golden ball that was hovering over the Gryffindor goals.

“Clever.” Mycroft muttered with a smile of disbelief. “He’s going to bloody do it.” He whispered.

Greg closed his fist around the golden ball as he met it in mid-air. The broom kept travelling though, as he lost his grip with only one hand, and fell back.

Mycroft didn’t scream, he wanted to, but he couldn’t. His hand quickly fumbled for his wand, but he didn’t know a spell to help. Wingardium Leviosa was the thought he had but he wasn’t sure he could do it on something that far away or that big.

Now he was starting to panic. His heartbeat was rising in his chest, blood pounding in his head and he gripped the bar to stop himself from shaking.

Greg was yelling something that couldn’t be heard, his robes were flapping in the wind, and his broom was far from reach as he approached the ground fast.

A fall from that height could kill him.

Mycroft couldn’t breathe.

Then it stopped, the whole commotion stopped, and it felt like time froze as Greg’s body stopped falling.

He was hanging by the gloved hand of John Watson, and he was holding on for dear life. Because it quite literally depended on it.   

A roar went up from the crowd, as it was declared that Gryffindor won the match, and Mycroft was amongst the cheering and clapping.

John was careful in bringing Greg down do the ground, once they were safe they celebrated with the manly bro-hug that always seemed to be given in public spaces, and Greg held up the snitch in his fist for everyone to see as his teammates touched down to celebrate with them.

Mycroft let out a breath of relief after what felt like an eternity and pushed through the crowd before they all began to leave, rushing down the stands to find the Gryffindor ones.

Greg looked at him in surprise once they emerged from the stands they leave from at the beginning of the match. With a newfound smile on his face, he excused himself from the rest of the group, before running over to Mycroft, retrieved broom in hand.

“Myc! I didn’t expect to meet you here. I thought I’d see you in the commons- Oh-“ Mycroft pulled him into his chest, his arms around his back holding him close, like if he let go Greg would shatter. Greg was his only friend, hell if that didn’t scare him within an inch of his own life.

He was never one to give hugs, never one to give human contact further than a handshake, but he felt like he needed this, probably more than Greg did. The reassurance that Greg was alive after what he’d just watched.

“You’re a fucking idiot, Gregory, I thought you were going to die.” He breathed, as Greg dropped his broom, and wrapped his arms around the Slytherin’s waist, his chin rested on Mycroft’s shoulder as he squeezed the Slytherin back with just as much force.

“Well if you were as smart as you say, you’d’ve known I’d be fine.” He laughed, but he wasn’t letting go.

“Oh, was I supposed to _predict_ that John Watson would save you?”

“You’re supposed to see things before they happen aren’t you?”

“Oh shut up.”

“Bite me, Holmes

 

**

 

Sherlock smiled softly to himself as a flustered looking John Watson ran into the library, slowing his roll immediately as the librarian glared at him. His eyes trained sherlock almost immediately and he walked over as quickly as his body would allow.

His hair was still damp which meant he’d just come from quidditch practice, and he had brought a worn looking leather messenger bag.

As it was the weekend people weren’t wearing their robes, John among them. He was wearing a grey cable knit jumper with a hole in the sleeve at the wrist, he had his thumb stuck through it like a glove but it was clear by the fraying on the edges that the whole wasn’t meant to be there. His jeans were worn at the knees and his battered converse were practically falling apart.

“Sherlock right?” He asked looking down at the boy sitting in the chair.

“Correct.”

John took a seat opposite him, pulling out notes. But they were notes for potions. That didn’t add up.

“Your brother didn’t say exactly what you were missing, so I’m gonna need you to tell me that part.”

“Sorry, my brother?”

“Yeah, tall dude, big nose, Slytherin? Cornered me in the middle of the night saying you needed to catch up on notes to stay in our potions class.”

“I’m going to murder him.” Sherlock muttered. “He does that, next time just break his bloody oversized face-cucumber.”

John was still clueless, because of course he was. “Why’re you annoyed?”

“He set this up, god knows why.” Sherlock knew exactly why, he just didn’t want to admit it. “I was told I was helping you with transfiguration.”

“Really? But you’re a first year.”

“I’m in a fourth-year class for transfiguration.” Sherlock deadpanned.

John’s eyes widened almost comically. “That’s… Extraordinary.” John breathed, he didn’t try to poke fun or accuse Sherlock of gloating or be defensive as if Sherlock said he was inferior (he was but that didn’t matter at the moment), but rather chose to be impressed

He ignored the compliment, unsure how to react, before his thoughts kicked in again. “Can I see your phone? Muggleborn aren’t you?”

“Uh sure.” He pulled his phone from his pocket and handed it to the younger boy. “Who told you I’m muggleborn?”

Sherlock flipped it around in his hands, scanning over it, the engraving catching his eye _To Harry from Clara_ xxx, interesting. He turned it back over in his hand, pressing the home button revealed a picture of a dog and he resisted the urge to smile. He loved dogs. “No one, I worked it out.” He muttered, still looking at John’s phone, which was password protected. It would’ve been easy to break had it been a number code, but it was a word. Sherlock didn’t know John well enough to guess so he handed it back. “Fascinating devices these, it’s a wonder we still don’t use them. We look down on muggles for how they work yet we still use candle light and you use electrissy.”

“Electricity.” John corrected, putting his phone back in his pocket.

“Right.”

“You’re observant aren’t you? Nobody else could tell I'm a muggleborn.” John replied, propping his face up on his hand as he looked at Sherlock.

The Ravenclaw shrugged, opening a book on transfiguration that he’d picked out. “I could tell you more, but most people are quite opposed to it once I get into details.”

The Gryffindor rolled his eyes, taking his hand off his face and straightening his posture. “I can take it, honest.”

“You’re from an unloving household. Your dad is an alcoholic, your brother potentially likewise. You don’t like your brother, maybe because he left his wife, maybe you like his wife, maybe you don’t like his drinking. Your mother isn’t in the picture.” Sherlock spoke, keeping his voice down but speaking quickly, careful to annunciate in the hope that John would keep up. It was difficult for his mouth to keep up with his brain as it worked studying every inch of John that he could see in the hopes that he wouldn’t miss anything out.

Strangely, John didn’t look offended, instead he looked curious, leaning forward but not in a threatening manor like others had done. “How did you know all that then?”

“Your phone, and your clothes. Clothes, worn, second hand, you don’t really like them yet you still wear them. That shows lack of money, well lack of muggle money, you father buys them, obviously, no mother would let their child wear clothes with holes in them. The phone is where everything else comes in, the engraving for a start, Harry, your brother, who gave you the phone and Clara, now who’s she? The x’s say lover, gift says wife not girlfriend. Would have kept it if she left him, sentiment, funny thing, but he gave it to you. Firstly, it’s a sign he wants you to keep in touch, judging by the way you’ve tried to scratch the engraving off you aren’t intending to, but it’s also a way to get rid of the guilt. Scratches around the charging port show alcoholism, usually runs in families, ergo your dad, given the lack of a mother.”

“I could’ve been a half-blood.”

“Nope.”

“Why?”

“Your notes.”

John furrowed his brow, eyes flickering to the pieces of parchment on the table. “What about them?”

“You don’t know how to hold a quill, you hold it like you would hold a ballpoint pen, unused in the magic world, commonly used by muggles. As seen by the splatters, and the tears in the paper toward the beginning of each page. Half-bloods usually have some practice.”

“Wow, that’s… Brilliant.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, of course it was, it was fantastic.”

“That’s not what people usually say.”

“What do they usually say?”

“Piss off.”

John giggled and Sherlock much to his own surprise laughed with him, before John shushed them both. “We can’t laugh it’s a library!” He whisper-shouted, which only made Sherlock want to laugh more.

“So, do you actually need help with transfiguration?”

“Do you actually need notes for potions?” John quirked up an eyebrow at him, mimicking his tone.

“Yes.”

“Same.”

“I’ll tutor you if you let me copy them up.” Sherlock offered.

“Mate, it’s gonna take more than one session to get me up to speed. I can barely turn a mouse into a teacup.” John replied, exasperation in his tone.

“I don’t see the issue, we could make this a weekly arrangement. I have nothing better to do.”

“But I can’t pay you back. I’m shit at everything, and you’re good at everything.”

“Wrong.”

“What d’you mean wrong?” John tilted his head slightly, much like a dog.

“You could teach me how to fly.”

“You can’t?”

“Not at all. I never saw the point, so I never learned.”

“Deal.” John replied, grinning at him, holding out his hand to shake. Sherlock took it gingerly, shaking it once before letting go.

“Let’s get down to business.” Sherlock began, turning the book around to point to what John needed to see. Before he could continue John cut him off in what he thought was supposed to be whispered singing.

“To defeat, the huns!”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, confused. “What?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

 

**

 

Sherlock sat on the end of Johns hospital bed. The Gryffindor was still in his quidditch robes, but as it turned out, grabbing a sixth year that’s falling from the sky with one hand, is a sure-fire way to dislocate your shoulder. So here they were, in the hospital ward.  

He didn’t regret it though, Greg could’ve seriously hurt himself had John not grabbed him. He was lucky the snitch was above the nets in the first place.

It surprised him that Sherlock had made the effort to keep him company. He didn’t even object to John holding his hand when they put his shoulder back in place.

He knew what the injury would be before it had happened. Harry dislocated her shoulder once, she’d fallen down the stairs drunk and knocked it out of place. He was terrified when it happened, he’d had to set it for her. (“You want to be a doctor, don’t you Johnny? Give us a hand then.” Though it was to avoid the hospital fee.)

He’d wanted to be a doctor when he was little, before the whole magic business had started, he used to stick a toy thermometer in his mum’s mouth and treat her for an imaginary sickness. Some kind of twisted karma gave her a real one he couldn’t treat. Leaving the memories bitter in his head no matter how hard he tried to smile at them.

It would be a lie to say he didn’t still want to be a doctor. But now he was in a wizarding school, free from biology and chemistry, so he couldn’t. There was no hope in hell of him being a healer, he was more likely to kill a patient than make them better when it came to magic.

“I can’t believe you even held onto him after that.” Sherlock spoke, breaking him from his thoughts. Madame Promfrey had set his shoulder a while ago, with a little help from one of the house-elves and John’s own instructions. But he had to wait another hour before he could go Join the celebrations, though he doubted there’s be much celebration left by the time he got back. So Sherlock was sat with him, distracting him from the dull pain still aching in his arm.

“He would’ve died, Sherlock.” John protested, looking at Sherlock in disbelief.

“He shouldn’t have fallen.”

“He won us the match.”

“Is it possible for you to go a Quidditch game without injuring your arm?”

“Is it possible for you to go a minute without being a smartass?”

“You’ll say no if I do.”

“Then don’t say no.”

“Lying is wrong, John.”

“Since when do you care?” John was smiling now. He couldn’t help but smile when Sherlock acted so ridiculous, he knew it was on purpose, but it still made him grin like an idiot, if he wasn’t laughing already.  

After about four weeks of tutoring, and Sherlock moving seats to sit beside him in potions, John figured it safe to say that they were friends. Well, Sherlock was John’s friend, he wasn’t sure if it was the same the other way around, but he didn’t really care either.

Sherlock was odd in a lot of ways. He was smart too. And he didn’t look down on John like everyone else did. He’d been doing better in potions since Sherlock became his practicals partner, the younger boy never made John cast anything if needed, but always let him do the ingredients. Even Snape seemed to lay off him a bit.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, allowing silence, save for the bustling of trolleys and chatter from other visitors, to engulf the room.

“Hey, uhm, thanks.” John spoke, clearing his throat.

Sherlock frowned, furrowing his eyebrows. “For what?”

“For coming to the match. I didn’t expect to see you there and I guess it helped a bit to know you were.” John paused a bit before continuing, unsure of how to word what he wanted to say. “Because I’m muggleborn, I don’t have family like the rest of the team, and I didn’t really have friends before you, so, thanks.”

“You’re welcome. You played well.” Sherlock replied. He looked a little stunned, which was new, considering he usually had an answer for everything.

“I didn’t think you liked quidditch.” John replied, changing the topic like he was trying to fan the awkwardness out of the room, after the genuine compliment Sherlock had just given him.

“I don’t like flying, theres a difference.”

“Yet you want me to teach you?”

“You saved a goal upside down today, I think you’ll manage.”

“Funny how you weren’t focused on the main action.”

“Which is?”

“The seeker, duh.”

“Well I'm not friends with Gordon am I?”

“His name is Greg.”

“Mycroft was too busy staring at him anyway.”

“Mycroft went to the match?”

“Yeah he’s Giovanni’s secret boyfriend.”

“Now that’s just forced!"


	4. The Fight and the Flying Lesson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sick. and I wanted to write a festive chapter before im completely and utterly sick of the season. 
> 
> hanukkah starts tomorrow, so happy early hanukkah
> 
> enjoyyyy

It was cold, and in typical English weather, it was raining as they made the trek to Hogsmeade. Mycroft had proposed the idea, and intended to stick to it, somewhat bored being stuck in the castle for so long.

They weren’t talking, given Mycroft’s distaste for idle chatter, but walked in silence save for the crunch of their shoes against the ground. Greg was pressed against his side as they shared his umbrella.

“Here, it’ll make this less uncomfortable.” Greg spoke, taking a step closer and pulling Mycroft into a side sort-of-embrace, his hand rested firm against the taller boy’s waist. This was considerably less uncomfortable, and quite warm, but sort of awkward. “You’re a berk. Put your hand on my waist or in my pocket or something.” Greg laughed. “Either that or you’re gonna have to magic a bigger brolly.”

Mycroft laughed before abruptly covering his mouth, and Greg looked at him confused. “I blame you.”

“For what?” The Gryffindor asked.

“I’ve been associating with you too much, I registered that as a euphemism.”

Greg gave an overexaggerated gasp. “Scandal. Mycroft Holmes with a dirty mind? _Never_.”

What he failed to grasp was that Mycroft was in control of the umbrella, until the prefect moved it from covering him.

They went to their preferred shops of choice, browsing and making a mockery of stuff out of boredom.

Greg looked for some small gifts for the quidditch team whilst they were there, he wasn’t stupid enough to try to buy Mycroft anything when the prefect was with him. Mycroft would manage to sneakily buy Greg something, however, and he’d probably get Anthea something too while he was at it. She was the only other person he tolerated, save from his brother on occasion and Greg. Despite her insipid texting, when she actually got into the conversation she could be quite funny, and her sense of humour wasn’t anything shy of dark. Besides, he owed her something for helping him get intel around the castle, she had a connection with practically every muggle-born and half-blood that owned a phone.

“Have you asked anybody to the dance yet?” Greg asked as they took seat at the bar of The Three Broomsticks. His shoulder bag was resting at his feet, now filled with presents and Mycroft’s umbrella sticking out of the zip.

“Gregory, you’ve been my friend for two years, you should know I won’t be going. Besides, mother and father are insistent I come home since Sherlock refuses to.”

“Firstly, we’re friends?” He looked pleased and it took everything Mycroft had in his body not to smile.

“I am questioning my gauge on your intellect.”

“And secondly, in my defence, last year you didn’t go because you were throwing up slugs after angering Magnussen.”

“I wouldn’t have gone regardless. You didn’t have to stay. And slugs aside, I meant every word I said.”

“You told him his glasses were as real as his facial hair and he and the fake accent could go choke on a pigmy puff.”

“All of which are true. I’m impressed you still remember.”

“You puked a slug on my hand and talked about different variations of untraceable muggle murder the rest of the night, how could I forget?”

“You didn’t have to stay. You should’ve gone, Shirley was it? She was attracted to you.”

“How heartless would that make me? Off jamming to Weird Sisters when my best mate’s being sick in the Slytherin loo. I have to have heart for two around you, count.” He jabbed his fingers into Mycroft chest, and the prefect rolled his eyes.

“Ah, ah, ah.” Mycroft replied half-heartedly, resting his hand on his fist, and waving over the bartender.  

“Two butterbeer?” She asked, cleaning a glass, looking pointedly at Mycroft. Greg was staring at her, if he’d been paying more attention he’d have noticed it _wasn’t_ out of mild attraction.  

Mycroft forced his normal people smile, offering the bartender a believable fake laugh. “It’s unlikely you’ll give us something stronger.” He offered a dash of sarcasm, which she seemed to appreciate, and gave him a smirk in return.

“Damn right.” She giggled, in what Mycroft knew wasn’t her real laughter. You boys from Hogwarts?” She asked, even though she didn’t even glance at Greg.

Considering the Gryffindor didn’t appear to be planning on a reply, Mycroft did instead. “The one and only. I take it you went, Hufflepuff, no?” He could’ve gagged, meaningless talking that would inevitably be forgotten made his stomach turn, but if he told her to piss off, he doubted she’d be too kind in letting them stay.

“Yeah actually. Looks like the sorting hat has some competition.”

“Well believe me, I’m less entertaining.”

“Doubt it. I’ll get that for you two.”

“You were staring.” Mycroft spoke pointedly once she was out of earshot.

Greg scowled at him, if he was paying more attention he would have noticed that the annoyance was legitimate. “You were flirting.” He replied.

“I’d hardly call it that. Idle conversation maybe, should get our first round without charge. ” Mycroft replied. Sure, enough the bartender set down the two bottles and waved Greg off when he tried to hand her the money. Taking a sip of his drink, Mycroft turned to face Greg, he didn’t particularly like butterbeer, but he couldn’t be bothered asking for anything else. It wasn’t like he could buy much at seventeen in a bar. His confidence faltered when he properly registered the Gryffindor’s frustration.  “Are you alright?”

“You smiled at her.”

“And?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe that I'm your only friend and you barely smile at me!”

The Slytherin cocked his brow at the sudden outburst, watching as Greg took an angry sip from his bottle. “I hope you don’t plan on causing a scene in here, Gregory.”

Greg was silent for a moment, his thoughts were spinning around his head so fast Mycroft couldn’t hear anything but noise when he looked at the Gryffindor.

Abruptly, the spinning stopped, and Greg tipped his head back to swallow the rest of his drink before replying. “No, I don’t, I’ll cause one outside, come on.” He ordered, standing up and storming out of the pub, Mycroft rolled his eyes, letting out an exasperated sigh before following after him. He chased the Gryffindor up the abandoned path toward the shrieking shack, until he caught up and spun him round by the shoulder to face him.

“Okay _what_ on _earth_ is wrong with you! You were fine mere moments ago, and from my knowledge, its not your time of the month.” The anger had been sudden. Mycroft knew Greg to be more impulsive than he was, but never manic in his decisions or emotions. So, this came from nowhere, and he was confused to say the least.

“What’s wrong with me? No, what’s wrong with you!?” Greg replied angrily, shoving the prefect back. “It took me two years to get any fucking semblance of human kindness from you, you barely even smile when we hang out, but some bloody bartender gets better treatment. You _hate_ idle conversation.”

And he was right, Mycroft did.

“You are being a child, Gregory. Honestly. You should know it was a fake smile, the laugh too, if you listened to my tone of voice you’d hear the disinterest. But I think you’d rather sit in than get kicked out for me acting like usual.” Mycroft replied, pinching the bridge of his nose in annoyance. “Why are you so bothered by this?”

He should know what was annoying Greg. He always knew. But this time he didn’t and that scared him.

When it was Anderson being a prick and shitting all over Greg’s muggle side. Mycroft had filled his duvet with playing cards and his pillowcase with old phone wires people from the Slytherin commons had been kind (scared) enough to give him.

When it was a quidditch practice that had gone horribly wrong. Mycroft was at the hospital bed to keep him company through the night, given that the remedy Madame Promfrey had given him caused a bit of pain.

When it was a test that he’d bombed hard enough to earn a detention. Mycroft had purposely put himself in detention to make sure he was okay.

And Greg never told him any of his problems. Mycroft always knew.

Why didn’t he now?

“I don’t know, I just am!” Greg exploded, and Mycroft flinched at the volume. As he stared he caught himself and realised what was going on, coming back into the reality of the situation seemed to throw him for a loop, and he looked at Mycroft in an odd sort of shock, almost fear. “I-It’s stupid, I just- I dunno… I'm sorry, do you want to go back?” His voice broke, he sighed, and his shoulders dropped as the anger fizzled out of him, he directed his gaze immediately away from the Slytherin’s piercing glare.

“Greg…” Mycroft spoke softly this time. It wasn’t often he used a nickname in regards to his friend, but somehow the stern and cold _Gregory_ that usually fell from his lips didn’t feel appropriate or helpful in this instance. For the first time in his life he was left clueless as to what he was supposed to do here. He couldn’t read anything from Greg other than shame and upset. God he really wasn’t great with people, was he? “Do you-“ He cleared his throat. “Do you want a hug?” He asked.

To his knowledge men that were friends generally didn’t go around showing affection to one another on the regular. They were no exception. They’d been mind-numbingly stereotypical in the manners that they’d done over the past two years. It wasn’t as though the Slytherin was cold toward him, he just lacked the knowledge of human responses. But Mycroft was almost certain that the hug he’d given Greg after the match was the _semblance of human kindness_ that the Gryffindor was referring to. They’d stuck to pretty normal boundaries before then, a clap on the back, a pat on the shoulder, a word of sympathy when something went wrong. Though all of that was mostly on Greg’s part.

Though somehow it felt to him that those boundaries had changed, and he simply hadn’t realised until now.

Before he could continue his thought process Greg was against him, his chin resting in the crook of Mycroft’s shoulder like it had done before.

They stood like that, in silence, for a brief yet oddly enjoyable moment, before Mycroft realised he probably owed a further (and calmer) explanation to his actions.

“Sentiment isn’t something that I’ve ever prided myself on, Gregory. I’m not all that familiar with what is and isn’t acceptable, so in an attempt not to disgrace myself, I do nothing at all. I see that my way of reasoning has been causing you hurt. I’m sorry for that.”

“Don’t be, Myc. I'm just being a jealous git for no reason, honest.” Mycroft’s mouth quirked up at the nickname, and he heard Greg sigh, pushing his mouth into the shoulder of Mycroft’s coat. He mumbled something into the fabric that sounded an awful lot like “ _No reason at all.”_

“I’m not opposed to _this_ if that helps.”

“Yeah, it does.”

“Do you want to go back to the castle? I’ll have the house-elves make hot-chocolate.”

“Deal.”

 

**

 

Sherlock grunted in annoyance as the doors to the Ravenclaw commons opened. He’d been falling slowly through his mind palace, drooping to the floor in one of the rooms, ready to fall asleep, almost there, until a familiar hand shook his shoulder.

“Sherlock.” It was John. John was in the Ravenclaw commons at midnight, for no apparent reason. “Come on, mate, get up.”

His arm had since healed, he was able to use it fully now after a few weeks of easy going and no quidditch. To which he was going insane about.

Sherlock opened his eyes. “What are you doing here?”

“You asked me to teach you how to fly. So, I’m gonna teach you.”

“Now?”

“When else? Joseph Ragamuffin has the pitch booked till the next match, Johnstone’s ready to kill him.”

“How did you even get in here?”

“Greg got the password off Mycroft for me.” John spoke, like it was supposed to be obvious. Sherlock supposed maybe it was obvious and he wasn’t working at his highest calibre.

“Christ Mycroft has it bad.”

“Has what bad?”

“A crush on Glen.”

“Greg.”

“Right.”

“Well come on! I have charms tomorrow!”

“Filches cat will get us in a second.” Sherlock deadpanned, but sat up anyway, giving a muffled grunt as John threw a jumper at him.

He’d had an unpleasant experience with said feline on a midnight expedition about a month back. He ended up with a week of detention in a mind numbingly silent classroom with an idiot teacher, he was supposed to be writing lines, but he learned a charm for that the moment he realised he disagreed with a few school rules. Instead he sat at the back of the classroom with his feet on the desk, leaning back on his chair, thinking of any better way he could spend his time than this.

So he wasn’t too thrilled at the idea of having to do that again.

“And you complain about me being boring, come on.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and pulled the jumper over his head and went after John. The Gryffindor was slipping down the corridors practically silent, toward a wall.

Sherlock watched in confusion, as John knocked the wall twice before drawing a circle with his finger against the bricks. Nothing happened for a moment, and Sherlock was about to go back to the commons where it was warm, comfortable, and he could escape to his mind palace, then something happened.

The wall shifted back and slid into itself, John turned and gestured to the Ravenclaw to follow him. Once both boys were in the passage way, the door shut, and Sherlock began to speak.

“How did you know about that?” He asked, the tunnel was dark, and too small for them to walk side by side. He could just about make out John extending his hand back for him to grab, like he was a child the Gryffindor was afraid of losing.

“Secret of the Gryffindor quidditch team. You aren’t to tell anyone, this is me repaying your favour, not getting disowned by my house.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. Where exactly does it lead?”

“It goes underground for a bit, then comes up in a clearing in the forest.”

“Convenient.”

“You’re telling me.” John replied. “Generally, it’s empty, I got to see a unicorn being born last year though, they were kind of annoyed at me for interrupting, but the centaur bloke said I had to pay my respects now I was there. So, I got to pet the baby.”

“Unicorns are generally more predisposed to liking women.”

John ignored the comment, but Sherlock knew he heard it. “The creatures of the forest are generally quite understanding as long as you aren’t a prick.”

“Doesn’t bode well for me then.”

“No, I suppose not.” Even in the dark of the tunnel, the smug grin on John’s face was visible.

“So how do you plan on teaching me to fly?”

“I plan on getting you to a broom for a start. You can use mine for now, until I can nick one from the shed to keep at the spot. We’ll work from there. I at least want you to be able to fly in a straight line by the end of tonight.”

Declaring that was probably a mistake. As it turned out, flying was not only the one thing Sherlock couldn’t do, it was also the one thing he was horrendously bad at.

The light of the moon shone down through the opening of the trees, and they took it in turns casting Lumos to keep the clearing lit. It wasn’t as cold as Sherlock had anticipated, given the jumper John had thrown at him, and the extra hoodie he’d tied around his waist should they need it, which Sherlock took immediately, it was warm and it smelled nice. John was quite pleased that his light was as bright as it was, considering he tended to get more flustered when casting spells around Sherlock. Always scared of making a tit out of himself.

Clearly Sherlock was not.

The Ravenclaw was hanging from the broom upside-down like a sloth, he was about six feet in the air, so the fall wouldn’t kill him, but he was still reluctant to let go. “Jesus, maybe you’ll need a Cleansweep, I’ve heard they’re steady. A nimbus is certainly not doing you any favours.” John was holding back laughter.

Sherlock scowled at him upside down, unamused. “I will eviscerate you.”

“I’d like to see you try. I reckon I could get to Kings Cross by the time you’re off that broom.” John quipped back, folding his arms across his chest, wand still glowing in his hand.

“Shut. Up.” He spoke with exasperation in his tone, trying to ignore the embarrassment on his face.

“You know what? I think it bothers you.” John grinned, taking Sherlock’s hand in one of his, and his broom in the other pulling him off and the broom out from under him, so he handed on his feet with a thud. “That I’m better than you at something.”

Sherlock raised a brow. “You’re better at a lot of things, but you seem to prefer it when I act superior. Lumos.” He muttered, and John put his own wand out, shoving it in his pocket as he leant on the broom handle.

“I like it when you’re smart. I tolerate you when you’re clever.”

“Or maybe you just hate taking compliments.”

“As if you would.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Well you do have talents, you just refuse to acknowledge them in favour of focusing on what you cannot do. It’s quite infuriating to watch but I restrained on commenting on it.”

John laughed, shaking his head. “You talk a load of bollocks, Holmes.”

“Pot kettle black, Watson, you said I’d fly in a straight line by the end of this.” Sherlock jabbed back, the corners of his mouth quirking up into a smirk.  

The Gryffindor rolled his eyes, grabbing his broom and standing up on it, hands free, just to show off. It’d taken him the better part of the summer to learn that trick, out in the woods near his house, where nobody could see. He carried the broom around in a hockey bag to hide it. “Just because you can cast spells and I can’t.”

Sherlocks face twisted into disgust, and John looked at him confused, jumping off the broom and letting it drop to the floor, concerned now for his friend.

Before he could speak the Ravenclaw interrupted.

“ _Can’t_.” He groaned “There it is again. It’s always everything John Watson _can’t_ do, never what he can. Never that he can ace a written exam with one hundred per cent, never that he can save a life in a quidditch match, never that he can put up with a Ravenclaw prick for longer than ten minutes.” Sherlock spoke, with no sign of stopping. “You look at magic as something you can’t do because you’re muggle-born and everybody has had a head-start but it’s that very thought, not your lack of experience that is holding you back. Magic comes naturally to us, we’ve known about it since cognitive thought was even established, and you didn’t know until you were twelve. But none of that should matter, because when you hold your wand and you feel that power flooding through your veins, the moment you say the incantation it should flow. But its that thought, that word, _can’t_ , that stops the flow and stops the spell.” Sherlock stopped pacing and raving and waving his arms in manic gestures and placed his hands on John’s shoulders. “Well next time you do, and you go to cast a spell, and you think that you _can’t_. Think instead that I know you can. And when have I ever been wrong?”

His pale green eyes were searing into John’s own. They weren’t as icy as Mycroft’s had been, and John found himself staring into the seafoam colour. This was the closest he’d ever been able to look, and if he was honest with himself, Sherlock had fucking gorgeous eyes.

John went a brilliant shade of red and turned around to grab his broom from the forest floor where it had fallen. “Sun’s coming up. I’ll walk you back to the commons.” He muttered making the same motions as before against the trunk of a thick tree. “Same time next week?” He didn’t turn round but tilted his head to the side Sherlock was at behind him.

The Ravenclaw smiled, because he knew John couldn’t see it. “Thank you, John.”

 

**

 

John was surprised to hear that Sherlock was staying over Christmas.

From what he’d told the Gryffindor about his family, John thought they sounded wonderful, maybe a little overbearing but he’d taking overbearing over alcoholic any day of the week. Somehow Sherlock seemed to realise his discomfort on the topic of family and shut his mouth halfway through a sentence, something John had never expected to witness.

He was even more surprised when there was a package in the post for him, on the second day of Christmas break.

All the tables had been pushed together to form one union, for all of those who didn’t have family to go home to, or couldn’t go home to, to be united. John thought it was quite sweet.

Sherlock sat down at the end of the table with the other Ravenclaws, whilst he stayed put with a few mates from Gryffindor, and Stamford, who’d decided to join them.

“Post?” The Hufflepuff asked, glancing at John. “I thought you said your family didn’t know?”

John had stopped eating his toast, almost dropping the jam smothered slice in surprise when the package fell onto his legs. He was staring at it in confusion, like somebody had just handed him an alien control panel and asked him to work it.

“My dad does, he’s always just too pissed to remember. But this isn’t from him, or Harry for that matter.” John muttered, examining the package that had been dropped on his lap by one of the school owls, he didn’t have one of his own.

He knew what howlers were, he knew they were more commonly found in letters, but he’d seen a girl get a howler in the form of a gift box, her mother had sent it to catch her off guard. Apparently she’d set fire to her sister’s hair before she got on the train. According to McGonagall, that present ranked seventh on the scale of loudest howlers ever sent.

The first was a letter Professor Flitwick had gotten in his third year, after giving his sister butterfly wings, and locking her in a cupboard to hide her, when he couldn’t change her back.

The second was an April fools’ prank, in which a boy sent his lover a letter which boomed out the words “I LIKE YOUR BUTT!” Across the great hall for everyone to hear.

“Well go on then, might be a present.”

“Maybe.” John muttered, unsure of who would even get him a gift. Greg had got small presents for the team, just as he had, but he’d ordered them not to open them until Christmas day. Johnstone had just thrown him a tin of broom handle wax on their last team meeting before the break went out.

Though the team meeting consisted of playing a broom version of tag, and having a Christmas picnic in the quidditch stands.

He pulled the wrapping paper apart with somewhat shaky hands, for an undecipherable reason he found himself oddly nervous.

What it appeared to be was some sort of care package. There was a jumper, a scarf, new quidditch gloves, a bar of chocolate and a quill with a nib that looked an awful lot like his favourite biro.

He checked the name on the wrapping again just to be sure it was meant for him. Sure enough, there it was in neat cursive, John Watson, Gryffindor, 2nd Year.

“Wow, somebody must love you mate, you got a girl back home then?” One of the other boys asked.

John shook his head and frowned for a moment, confused and slightly awestruck, before finding a card under the bar of chocolate.

It had a picture of a festive looking quidditch player with reindeer antlers, of whom he didn’t know the same. He recognised him though, he was the keeper off the Irish team, his trick was distracting the other players because he was a metamorphagus. Suddenly the antlers changed, and his hair and face turned white as his nose became orange and pointed, like a snowman. John smiled and flipped the card over to read what was written.

_Dear John Watson._

_Mycroft has told us plenty about you, he says you’ve been looking after our boy Sherry. I know he’s difficult at times, he knows too but he won’t let on, so anyone willing to be his friend for as long as you have, is practically family._

_Mycroft also told us why you’re at the castle for Christmas, so we wanted to give you something, as a thank you and as a gift, to make your Christmas brighter (hopefully haha). I hope the gloves are useful to you, we were told you play quidditch. As a Gryffindor myself, I’m quite pleased to hear you’re winning so far!_

_As smart as he is, Myc can’t deduce allergies, so if you’re lactose intolerant or allergic to chocolate, I’m sure Sherry will take it off you in a pinch. And I’m sure he’ll inform us before Easter arrives._

_Merry Christmas, John!_

_Lydia (and Conrad) Holmes x_

It was from Sherlock’s parents.

Sherlock’s parents had gone out of their way to get John a present. Just because he was Sherlock’s friend.

He was in disbelief. This was one of the nicest presents he’d ever been given in his life. Generally, he was lucky if his dad tossed him a quid on his birthday, or even wished him a Merry Christmas. Getting anything from Harry was a waste of a thought, she was usually drunk off her tits and almost too broke to pay her rent most of the time. A gift like this was nothing shy of a miracle.

The Gryffindor looked up, all the boys had since moved on into different conversation, losing their curiosity in John’s mystery gift quite quickly.

He searched for Sherlock down the tables, to see the boy looking back at him, smirking as he tied his own scarf around his neck. John simply shook his head and grinned at him, before joining the rest of the conversation at his table.

Christmas day came faster than expected.

Despite their utter disinterest in him, John had still sent a card to his dad and his sister wishing them happy holidays, and he was quite excited about his gift for Sherlock.

He’d given Greg a new set of playing cards, considering Anderson had _accidentally_ set his original deck on fire. He was the only one, other than Mycroft, who ever played with the seeker and it pissed him off a bit when Phil had done that. He could’ve sworn Greg was ready to cry over it, but he managed not to. Mycroft looked like he was ready for murder when he found out.

However, his gift for Sherlock took a lot more time and effort, and hours of sorting books for Flitwick. He was lucky that John had a good memory and enjoyed organisation.

Eventually he got the knitting charm down, after much trial and error. Mostly error.

They’d agreed to sit beside each other at breakfast, and exchange gifts in the Ravenclaw commons once everyone was out for the annual snowball fight. John hadn’t enjoyed it last year and didn’t plan on going, and Sherlock was completely disinterested by the idea. So, they figured it the perfect opportunity.

John was practically vibrating in his seat as they ate, the house elves had outdone themselves, with miles of unhealthily festive breakfast along the tables.

“Who’s this, Holmes?” One of the older Ravenclaw boys asked him as they all began to fill into the hall.

“He’s with me.” Sherlock replied, tone dead and bored with them, before turning to John with a happier look on his face. Even though he’d been moaning for the week they’d been off that he hated the Christmas season and all its commercialism. “Morning John.”

“What’s got you in a good mood?”

“Mycroft gave me a book I’d been wanting.”

“Charms, curses and bewitching’s for the brave of heart?” John asked. The Ravenclaw had been ranting on about how no bookshop would sell it to him, and the librarian wouldn’t let him borrow it because it was sixth year level stuff. John was always blown away with how good Sherlock was at these things, always more advanced than you’d ever expect just by looking.

“Yep. Oh- Mummy left me another thing for you, one for Christmas day, seeing as she knew her package would be open by this point. Father was pleased that you liked the gloves, they’re his favourite brand.”

John furrowed his brow. “Your dad plays quidditch?”

“Used to. That’s how my parents met. Mummy was a beater for Gryffindor, Father was the chaser for Slytherin. Awfully dull isn’t it?”

“Yet neither you or Mycroft can fly?”

“Rather odd, people seem to think.” Sherlock replied in one of his best old Harrovian accents.

John rolled his eyes with a grin. “Quite.”

They ended up sat on the floor of the Ravenclaw commons, in front of the fireplace, Sherlock was sitting with his chin on his knees and his arms wrapped around them, and John with his legs crossed, and leaning back on his hands.

“So, who goes first?” Sherlock asked. He’d never done a gift exchange before and he was genuinely quite nervous about doing it. He couldn’t figure out why, because he could predict John’s reactions, and all of them that he’d bothered to run through had been positive.

“I will, here.” John replied, sliding his package over to the taller boy. It was haphazardly wrapped, with Sellotape covering every crack and rip the Gryffindor had managed to tear. “Yes, I know, eloquent isn’t it?”

Sherlock didn’t reply, but went on into unwrapping the gift, it was clothing, that wasn’t hard to tell, if he had to guess it was a scarf.

He guessed correctly. The scarf was made up of blue and silver stripes, it was sleek and soft to the touch, and it was tightly stitched, it barely even looked knitted, but it was, the way he preferred.

“Don’t say anything yet, put it on and tie it how you usually do.”

Unsure of why John was asking him to do so, he followed the instruction, and the scarf was just as comfortable around his neck as he’d expected. It was safe to say that he was pleased.

Then he became even more pleased.

As from the scarf a faint melody began to flow, before growing louder.

“Is that?” He trailed off as he listened to the song, gentle violin growing stronger as he wore it.

John grinned at the look of surprise on Sherlock’s face. “Danse Macabre, you told me you liked it, remember?” It had taken him forever to find the sheet music for it, but he was lucky that he only had to look at it once.

“I didn’t expect _you_ to.”

“Don’t underestimate me, Sherlock. Made that myself, charmed it and all. You like it?”

“You made it?”

“’Course I did. Where else would I get a scarf that plays Danse Macabre from the tassels? Why? Are you impressed with me, Holmes?”

“Yes, it’s quite magnificent, for somebody who can barely thicken a hiccoughing potion.”

If John was any closer to him he would have smacked him upside the head. “Oi!”

“Its wonderful John, thank you.” Sherlock smiled softly.

“If you want it to shut up you can untie it or use that silencing charm.”

“Right, my turn, here.” Sherlock replied, handing over a package wrapped slightly more neatly, but not by much. “Also eloquent, I’m sure you’ll agree. Though I feel my gift is slightly idiotic now.”

John rolled his eyes, as if Sherlock _could_ be idiotic. “I doubt it.” Yet again, his hands were shaking as he unwrapped the gift.

It was something he hadn’t expected, and something he could have never predicted.

It was a stethoscope.

“You told me that you’d wanted to be a doctor. If I remember right, you were pissed that you couldn’t be a healer, and because Hogwarts doesn’t offer the usual muggle subjects you wouldn’t be able to be a doctor either. Well, that’s just a reminder that I think you’ll be a fantastic healer and I suppose it would be handy to have if you become a doctor anyway. People like sentimental things like that don’t they?”

“You’re a cock.” John laughed, was crying now, against his best intentions. “Thank you.”

“Why are you crying? Don’t you like it? I can-“

“No, you berk, I love it.” He sniffed, still smiling as he put it round his neck, staring into his lap as he fidgeted with the bell. “It’s just, I dunno, my mum.”

Sherlock hadn’t realised john had ever known his mother, he’d assumed she left, or died in childbirth. “Your mum?” He asked, trying not to be rude, but still curious.

John drew his knees up to his chin, trying to avoid Sherlock’s stare, knowing that if he stared back he’d blush again. “I’ve wanted to be a doctor from I was little. I used to play doctor all the time when I was a kid. When she got time off work I used to diagnose her with a fake sickness, and I’d stick the thermometer in her mouth and listen to her heart. When-“ He coughed. “Wh-When she actually got sick, really sick, I’d bring my stethoscope when we went to visit. It was fake obviously, a toy, it didn’t work. But I didn’t really think that day, when- when I couldn’t hear anything from it, that it would be an accurate reading.”

He’d never told anybody about his mum before, not his muggle friends, not his wizard friends, not even Harry. Saying the words hurt his throat but he forced them out anyway, if he was going to be Sherlock’s friend, if Sherlock was going to be his friend, then that meant Sherlock shouldn’t just be guessing everything about him. John needed to tell him some things.

Sherlock panicked then, and for the first time in his entire life he tried to take something back. He’d been wrong, he hadn’t seen the possibility of John being upset.

“John, I'm sorry I didn’t realise, I wouldn’t have-“

“But now I have this one. And I have you. So,   I'm not alone, and the next however many times I listen to somebody’s heart I’ll be able to hear something.” He wiped the tears away from his eyes. “Thanks Sherlock.”

“Merry Christmas, John.”


	5. The Hair Conundrum and the Panic Puzzle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> STILL SICK. STILL STRESSED. STILL TIRED. FUCK ME I NEED A RED BULL
> 
> ENJOY!

Mycroft found himself for the first time he could think of, legitimately caught off guard by something Greg had done.

He received the misfortune of having to supervise one of the carriages, as people came back from their Christmas holidays, which meant he couldn’t sit in the same carriage as his closer acquaintances.

His holidays had been a success, Sherlock very much liked the gift the elder Holmes had given him, and in return had granted the keeping of two secrets be it needed, considering he’d spent his savings on a gift for John. He’d managed to avoid as much contact with his extended family as possible, and both his parents kept out of his hair, allowing him to revise for the mock exams he’d have to suffer through once he arrived back to Hogwarts.

Mummy and Father were quite pleased to have him home, though, and their mood seemed ever lightened when Sherlock sent, if begrudgingly, a photo of him and John in their knitwear. Sherlock was wearing a new scarf around his neck, and John, a stethoscope, but both were in the jumpers Mummy had made for them, to which she was very pleased.

“I like that John boy.” She’d spoken with a delighted grin on her face as she looked at the photo, John waved and then elbowed Sherlock who rolled his eyes and forced a smile and a wave.

“So does Sherlock, seemingly.” He’d muttered in response, secretly quite pleased that his brother had somebody to look after him, despite how imbecilic he was in reality.

Things were normal on the train, he’d shut down a rowdy group of third years with a glare, and managed civil conversation with a group of other Slytherin’s.

But when he finally got seated at his usual spot at the Gryffindor table, he did not expect Gregory Lestrade to sit down, acting as if everything was perfectly normal, with striking locks of black hair on his head.

He wasn’t sure if he was caught off guard, disappointed, or somehow overridden with attraction. Yes, he’d found Gregory striking before, he’d have been insane not to. What with the Gryffindor’s sharp jaw, slight stubble and dark entrancing eyes, it was difficult not to be completely enamoured, but Mycroft had incredible self-restraint.

“Myc, you alright?” He asked, his voice was filled with genuine concern, and Mycroft realised much to his chagrin that he’d been staring.

“Oh, yes, I'm fine. Your hair…” He muttered the last part, but Greg still caught it, even through the noise of the grand hall, given their proximity.

“What about it?”

“It’s black, you aren’t a metamorphagus, what spell did you use?”

“Hair dye?”

“Oh yes, of course, how could I be so stupid- what is that?”

“Oh, bollocks it’s a muggle thing then. I didn’t even think, sorry Myc!” Greg laughed. “It’s this thing muggles use to change their hair colour. You mix these chemicals and like it absorbs into your hair and dyes it.”

“Doesn’t it wash out?”

“Some do, this one won’t. I’ll probably just grow it out and cut the black off when it gets too long. Do you like it?”

“I’m not necessarily fond of change but it suits you, I suppose.” Mycroft replied, before turning to engage with the rest of their group for the remaining duration of the meal.

They ended up walking around the grounds before they had to go back to their individual commons. Given the winter season, the sky was dark and it wasn’t even seven o’clock, the stars were brought out as there was a significant lack of clouds in the inky black sky.

The quidditch grounds, remarkably weren’t wet, so Greg fell back onto the grass with a thud, inviting Mycroft to join him. The prefect rolled his eyes and laid down next to the Gryffindor.

“You have a question. Whats bothering you?” Greg asked, breaking the comfortable silence that had been established since they’d begun the walk. All the necessary small talk had been taken care of over dinner in the great hall, and now they were alone, Greg had seemingly decided to appease his curiosity of what was irritating the taller boy.

“Why did you dye it?” Mycroft asked simply.

Greg coughed first before replying. “Oh uhm, just fancied the change I guess.” Cough, hesitation, all needed to think of another reason than the true one, Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“Don’t insult me, I know when you’re lying Gregory.”

“Well it’s considerably less dignified to say I was self-conscious don’t you think?” He tried to laugh to hide the embarrassment, but it didn’t fool the Slytherin.

Mycroft frowned, brow creased as he tried to work it out. “Why would you be self-conscious? The grey suited you, it looked nice.” Nice was an understatement, but Mycroft wasn’t sure if calling it endearingly beautiful was a step too far, most likely yes.

“Yeah well not everybody thinks so.”

“Who said what, then?”

“As long as you promise not to make a big deal out of it.” Mycroft rolled his eyes and nodded. “Sally Donovan. She called me the Silver Surfer, he’s a comic book character, few of the other guys laughed with her. I tried my best to act like it didn’t phase me but I dunno. Shit like that gets under your skin after a bit.”

Mycroft knew all about mockery for features you could not control, his hair for one, his nose another, but he decided to focus on the relevant topic. “I am well aware, try being ginger.”

“You suit red though, well yours is more strawberry-blonde, it’s cute.”

Mycroft flushed red but forced himself to go back to the subject at hand. “So, you don’t like your grey hair because Sally Donavan compared you to a comic book character?”

“It wasn’t just the once. Silver Surfer, Quick Silver, Silver Samurai, Silver Dagger. All from comic books. The worst part is, I swear she looked it up on purpose. Who the fuck knows Silver Dagger off hand?” Greg asked, Mycroft glanced over at him, he was running his hands through his hair as a result of his annoyance, before they came to rest over his eyes. Mycroft didn’t say anything, knowing he’d continue on his own. “I didn’t like the grey to begin with, I just didn’t think much of it before. It was sort of just how it is. Salt and Pepper. But it’s just like they said, who goes grey at seventeen?” He removed his hands from his face, sighing out loudly and allowing his arms to flop down again at their sides.

“You.” The Slytherin deadpanned. Mycroft didn’t know anybody else with grey hair at their age, but that’s what made it so captivating. He couldn’t really understand why anybody would patronise him for it.

Greg huffed out a laugh. “Thanks for that captain obvious.”

There were a few passing beats of silence, in which Mycroft placed his hand on top of Greg’s ever so slightly, smiling softly up at the sky as the Gryffindor took his hand properly, interlocking their fingers.

He allowed it to be like that for a couple moments. The two of them in silence, staring up at the sky from the quidditch pitch, hand in hand. The stars were bright, splattered over the night’s sky like blinding white paint on a blackened canvas. He could make out a few constellations he knew just from looking a few moments. The moon was crescent, bright in the darkness, almost like it came from a picture book.

Despite the cool breeze that blew through the air, Mycroft didn’t feel cold in the slightest.

He felt warm, content just to be there. It was strange considering he’d never been one to appreciate such things. But it was nice, just to lie like this, with his best friend, his only friend, at his side.

Somehow, despite all the doubt in his head, he knew Greg was happy like this as well.

“This might sound gay or whatever,” Mycroft began, smiling when Greg elbowed him for mimicking him. “But the grey was quite fetching.”

“That sounds very gay, but I can’t say I object to it.” Greg replied, turning his head to catch Mycroft’s gaze. “Is this your way of flirting, Mycroft Holmes? Because if so, you need to get better synonyms for attractive.” He laughed, turning back to face the sky, and Mycroft couldn’t help but breathe a laugh in return, a genuine one, an unusual occurrence.

The air had turned suddenly quite flirtatious, and for once in his life the prefect wasn’t uncomfortable with it. In fact, he was quite welcoming of it. “Enlighten me then.”

“Well I for one, could call you handsome, or gorgeous if you prefer.”

“And you’d be lying through your teeth.” Mycroft replied with a smirk. He was a lot of things, arrogant, clever, a smart-ass git, but _gorgeous_ was far from anything he, or anyone else for that matter, had ever considered him to be.

“Says who!?”

“Says me.”

Greg sighed out an annoyed breath but didn’t press it, instead he chose to stand, pulling Mycroft up as he did so, keeping their hands clasped together.

“I’ll walk you to the commons.” Greg spoke suddenly, now they’d begun walking. He seemed to be making no effort in the slightest to drop Mycroft’s hand, and Mycroft had no interest in it either.

He couldn’t ignore the slight raise of an eyebrow they got from McGonagall as they passed her in the corridor.

“Not disgust, merely surprise.” He muttered to Greg, noticing him tense up, his grip on the prefect’s hand tightening. “She looked slightly pleased.” He added, with an air of confusion in his tone, the deduction was sure, but he couldn’t for the life of him work out why McGonagall of all people would be pleased by him and Greg holding hands.

“Weird.” The Gryffindor summed up his thoughts in a word.

He nodded in agreement. “Quite.”

“You coming to rescue me from extra practice tomorrow?”

“I always do.”

“Thanks Myc.”

“You’ve already given me thanks for-“

“No, not that, well that too, but for the whole thing about my hair. Thanks.”

“Pleasure.” Mycroft replied with a nod, turning to give the password, as he did so Greg made a move he hadn't predicted.

And for the second time in one day, the Gryffindor had caught him off guard.

He pressed a quick kiss to the side of Mycroft face, before walking briskly away.

It was as if he’d been paralysed, it took him a few moments to even register what had happened, never mind choke out the password through his surprise.

He just about managed it though. “Snake-eyes.” He stumbled into the Slytherin commons and headed straight up to the dormitories.

He needed to clear his head, re-evaluate all that had just happened, and then quite honestly, he needed to fucking sleep.

 

**

 

John beat Sherlock to the library, much to the first-year’s annoyance he’d been stopped by a group of girls in his History of Magic class on his way there, they wanted to get the homework off him, or copy his own version of the homework. He’d refused them the request, much to their dismay, and pushed past them to get to the library.

The Gryffindor greeted him with a nod and a smile and went back to reading the book on the table. He had his elbows propped up the table and was resting his face in his hands as he read, brow furrowed in concentration. His notes had been cast aside, the quill Sherlock’s parents had gotten him set carefully atop the pages, John’s notes had become a lot neater and confident since he’d received the gift. There was an envelope peeking out from under the book that was a ghastly shade of pink, and a mug sitting on the table where Sherlock sat.

“House-elves.” John muttered softly. “Asked them nicely.”

Sherlock frowned, before shrugging and taking a sip, tea, made the way he liked it. “What’s that?” He asked, pinching the corner of the pink envelope and sliding it out from underneath the paper.

“Yours.”

“How so?”

“Molly Hooper gave it to me on the way here. Said to give it to you. I think it’s a valentine.”

“Valentine, that sounds familiar.”

“Valentine’s day, February fourteenth. It’s a date for couples to be mushy and single people to ask their crushes out.” John had gotten used to defining simple things like that, rather than getting infuriated or accusing Sherlock of faking it, he simply decided to give him the answer to what he was looking for.

That was just how Sherlock worked. Considering that the Ravenclaw was his closest friend, he’d just decided that accepting the few flaws was the easiest way around them.

Valentines day was in two days, John had been given a few letters, but he either didn’t know who’d sent them, or didn’t like who’d sent them, and hadn't responded. One of the worst parts of being on the quidditch team, as John had told him one day after practice, was that your name got yelled out for everyone to hear, everyone who came to watch suddenly knew who you were.

“Ah.” Sherlock replied, opening the letter. “Have you asked your _crush_ out then?” He asked absentmindedly as the read over the letter, the word felt foreign on his tongue.

“I don’t think my crush would appreciate it.”

The Ravenclaw hummed in response. “Then maybe it’s wise that you don’t send one.”

The letter was filled with some sappy poem about how green his eyes were, and he rolled his eyes, folding it up and making a note to stick it in the fireplace later. He had no use for her flattery, considering he’d shot down all her advances prior.

She was in his astronomy class and was seemingly infatuated with the muggle study of zodiac signs, apparently hers and Sherlock’s were highly compatible, which was ironic considering that Sherlock didn’t find any romantic compatibility in her character.

What bothered him most is that she had the premise to be incredibly interesting, perhaps even a friend, if she’d just let go of her fixation on him.

He didn’t even have that many likeable qualities to begin with, what she saw in him outside of his birth date was a mystery he couldn’t be bothered to solve.  

“So, you’re not sending her one back then?”

“What?” Sherlock replied, glancing up, realising he’d been spaced out again, nursing the mug of tea in his hands.

“Molly,” John clarified. “You aren’t sending her a valentine.”

“Why would I do that?”

“I don’t know, maybe because she’s nice, and she clearly likes you.” Lip-lick, page turn, glance up. Sherlock didn’t even have to look to know.

“Yes, but _I_ don’t like _her_.”

Sherlock was nearly certain he didn’t like girls in general. There had been one in his transfiguration class who was quite pretty, though she was a lot older than him and infuriating in her attempts to be clever. He’d since written off any attraction he thought he may have felt to jealousy, she was fairly good at transfiguration after all.

But other than that, he didn’t see anything appealing in women. Though truthfully he saw nothing in men either.

Maybe he just didn’t like people outside of platonic relationships. As unlikely a hypothesis, it was the closest he’d come to a satisfying answer.  

“Why not?” John asked, clearly before he’d thought, as his face tinted red the moment the words left his mouth.

The Ravenclaw frowned at him, playing with his hands as he tried to form an answer, a lie, because whilst John was his only friend, he still wasn’t sure how John would react. “I don’t know, because I don’t. That’s like asking somebody why they don’t like onions, surely there’s a reason, but the reason shouldn’t matter.” A little defensive, but it wasn’t John’s place really to ask those types of questions.

“Okay, calm down, I didn’t mean to pry.” He bit his lip for a minute, before turning the book around for Sherlock to read, despite the fact the Ravenclaw had already read it from where he’d been sitting. “I don’t get this bit, give us a hand.”

John had a very good knack for changing the subject like it had never been awkward. Sherlock also knew he had a knack for dwelling on a subject when it bothered him.

His stomach sank when he realised he’d inevitably have to explain his reasoning.

But that inevitable moment was not right now, so instead Sherlock went straight to explaining what John needed to hear. He was there to help the Gryffindor after all.

“Oh, its just a difficult incantation, you’re pronouncing it wrong is all. Should work after that.”

“That easy?”

“For you, yeah.”

“You’re a berk.”

“Always with the compliments.” Sherlock gave his signature shit-eating smirk, the one he knew riled John up even further. “How far will it take for you to hit me? I reckon appearance might do it.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me, Watson.”

 

**

 

Nothing was going well for John Watson that day.

He’d woken from a vicious nightmare involving his mother and a hippogriff, just about managed not to scream and wake up his dormmates, and then couldn’t get back to sleep due to the images of the dream clouding his head every time he closed his eyes longer than a blink.

Somebody else’s post had dropped into his cereal, splattering it all over him, had he not been so riled up from the nightmare, he probably would’ve just wiped it off his face and poured another bowl. However, he was tensed up and tired, so rather than doing what he normally would have, he slammed his hands down on the table and stormed out of the great hall.

So, getting hit in the face with a quaffle at quidditch practice was all it took to make him snap completely.

He hadn't been focusing, reliving the nightmare he’d woken up from, and suddenly there it was, a whole lot of pain straight into his face. Apparently they’d begun doing penalties and he hadn't realised.

His breathing quickened as his vision went cloudy and his body threatened to go limp and slip of the broom, he managed to guide himself down before he fell completely, rolling on the grass like he was boneless before coming to a halt, chest heaving.

His breathes were uneven, and his face was hot, he needed to get away from everybody now. People were staring at him, as he pushed himself up and grabbed his broom.

“John! Mate are you okay?” Greg called as he ran over, Johnstone hot behind him, the rest of the team still in the air.

“I-“ He choked out a breath, trying to force himself to breathe properly, to no avail, he could feel the blood trickling from his nose down his face. “I-I’m fine, Greg. I just- I need to go. I can’t be h-here.” He stammered in response, pushing his broom into Greg’s chest, for him to take it.

Before he could get the Seeker’s response, or the captain’s permission, he bolted from the pitch. If there was one thing that muggle P.E had given him, it was a faster running pace than most.

The castle was filled with people, obviously it was, he didn’t know why he thought it would be a better place to go than the pitch. People were staring at him as he ran through the halls in his quidditch robes with a bloody nose dripping onto the floor, a stitch was tearing into his side and a sickness was rising in his throat, threatening to spill out over the edge if he didn’t get out of there soon. He felt like he was suffocating.

Without spewing his guts onto the floor, he managed to make it to the wall, slamming his hand against it twice before drawing the circle against the stone with shaky hands, he could barely feel them now, and his gloves were stained with the blood from his nose. He tumbled into the tunnel and kept running, knowing that staying in the confine of the channel would do him just as much good as submerging himself in a crowd.

Eventually he burst out into the opening in the forest, he fell to his knees, gasping for air on the grass, dropping further to he was leaning on his hands, coughing out strangled breaths.

He managed to remove the top robes of his quidditch kit, leaving him in the trousers and a vest.

Anything after that was black, and he fell against the ground with a thud.

He stirred with a groan, his head hurt.

“John?” A voice came muffled, and he could only offer an unintelligible grunt in response, squeezing his eyes shut tight before he attempted to open. “John!” The voice came clearer this time, it was Sherlock.

John managed to open his eyes, realising that the over coat of his quidditch robes had been tucked behind his head like a pillow. He sat up quickly, too quickly and winced as the blood rushed out of his head all too quickly.

He licked his lips, realising his mouth felt like sand.

“Here.” Sherlock replied, and suddenly he was brought back into the reality of the situation.

The Ravenclaw was sitting on the grass, cross legged with a book in his lap, his shoulder bag discarded at his side, and he was holding out a bottle of water to the Gryffindor, still reading, like this was the most normal situation on earth.

John took it from him, taking a sip. “How did you find me?”

“You weren’t at the library.” Sherlock replied, turning the page.

“I didn’t ask why, I asked _how_.” He raised a hand to his face, feeling the crusted blood that had dried above his lip and on his chin.

The younger boy looked up, brow furrowed for a moment before replying. “Lestrade said you ran from practice. And when I asked around people pointed in this direction. You were passed out, didn’t wake up when I shook you, so I went to get something to do and brought you some lunch. You eat in a regular pattern to my knowledge.”

“Yeah, and you don’t, which is nerve-wracking.” John laughed, wincing again as his head hurt, he offered Sherlock a smile of gratitude as the Ravenclaw passed him a paper bag with a sandwich in it.

“He also said you were jittery as all hell. Are you alright?” Sherlock never really cared how people were, he could always tell, never felt the need to ask, so it came as a surprise when he asked.

“I don’t know.” Considering what his answer was, it suddenly didn’t seem all that surprising that Sherlock couldn’t deduce it.

“Do you know what happened?”

“I got hit in the face with a quaffle and then I couldn’t breathe.” John muttered, it sounded ridiculous, but it was in truth what had happened, he was slightly embarrassed by it too.

“Speak up, I didn’t hear you.”

“I got hit in the face with a quaffle. And then I couldn’t breathe.”

“How do you mean?”

“It hurt to breathe, and my breaths were uneven, and I just had to get out of there before I threw up because there was just too many people. Too many people.”

“I know what that is. Well, sort of, I don’t know the exact phrase, but muggles have a different word for it anyway. Its when your body gets overridden by anxety-“

“Anxiety.” John corrected quickly. He still got mild amusement out of the things that Sherlock pronounced wrong, hearing him try to talk about a television one on of their late-night flying lessons had been the funniest thing John had heard in a long time.

Sherlock nodded, noting his mistake. “Yeah, and you sort of shut down into fight or flight mode. You chose flight.”

“Do you mean a panic-attack?” The Gryffindor frowned.

“I think that’s the term.”

“Sherlock, people with anxiety get panic-attacks, I don’t have anxiety, I _don’t_ get panic-attacks.” Maybe he was too insistent, he thought, as the knowing smirk crept onto Sherlock’s face.

“Well seemingly you just did.”

“You aren’t a doctor.” John spoke pointedly.

“No, but you are. What are the symptoms of a panic-attack, you can’t tell me you’ve never read up on them, and I know for a fact once you read something, you remember it.”

“God dammit,” He muttered under his breath. “Uhm, racing heart, feeling weak, faint, or dizzy. Tingling, tremoring or numbness in the hands and fingers. Chest pains. Breathing difficulties. Feeling a loss of control.” He counted them off on his fingers, his voice growing quieter the more he realised that what he was describing was almost exactly what he had experienced.

“And how many did you have?”

John sighed out a breath, Sherlock always knew when he was lying, he couldn’t now. “Nearly all.”

“Suffice it to say you did have a panic-attack, then?”

“Okay maybe I did! What the hell is it to you!?”

“I’m only trying to help John.”

“I know, I _know_.” He clenched his fists and squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to relax, almost. “I’m fucking scared, Sherlock. I don’t know what to do and it’s so much _easier_ to be angry than it is to be scared.”

“John.” Sherlocks voice was calm, it wasn’t cold, it was inviting. The Gryffindor opened his eyes to see Sherlock sitting differently, the book discarded on top of his back. “Come here.”

“What?”

“I read that hugging somebody your close to can ease stress. Considering I’m your closest friend, I thought it might help but you don’t have to.”

“No, I’m pretty sure that’s right, I heard it on telly once, I’ll do it if you reckon it’ll help .” John pushed himself up, trying his best not to stagger on shaky feet, before sitting down where Sherlock had gestured, between his legs.

His head rested against Sherlock’s chest once he relaxed enough to slump forward, and before he knew it he was crying, as the younger boy held him close, rubbing what he supposed were to be soothing circles into his back.

They sat like that for a small while, the only sounds were Sherlock’s contented breathing and attempts at words of comfort, and John’s choked sobs from pent up stress and sadness, that he’d never let show before. Always too scared.

“I'm sorry.” John managed to choke out once he’d calmed down a little.

“You should be.” Sherlock deadpanned, and John felt his stomach drop, before Sherlock added more to the sentence. “I was scared out of my mind when you weren’t at the library.”

John managed a watery laugh. “You didn’t have to come here.” He hated being a burden to people, he completely forgot about the library in his haste to get away from all the people in the castle.

“What and leave you passed out in the forbidden forest alone? I think not. You can’t have all the fun to yourself, panic-attacks, dehydration, save some for the rest of us.” Sherlock replied, mock indignant, before offering a smile as John lifted his head to give a tear stained scowl, with a smile hidden just underneath it.

“Git.”

“Wanker.” Sherlock replied, tone flat, expression dull, before grinning widely at the shock on John’s face.

“Oi!”


	6. The Unexpected Hurt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> still sick, still stressed, still procrastinating.  
> might have to go to school tomorrow, might fake sicker to get out of it.  
> life is a fuckin wild ride. 
> 
> enjoy!

Summer came around quicker than anticipated. Easter seemed to be glossed over, April fools however came with the same grandiose it did every year.

Greg managed a hex that forced him to only speak in rhyme, and he in turn bewitched Greg’s tongue to interrupt him whenever it pleased.

The halls were filled with jump-scares and japes. The fifth-floor corridor was enchanted to look like a gaping chasm with a river below it, despite the fact that you could still walk on it perfectly fine.

He was quite amused to see Sherlock muttering angrily to himself with a raincloud stuck over himself, robes drenched, and hair matted to his forehead. “Needs help for charms he said, can’t do magic he said.” He grumbled as he stormed passed the Slytherin, nose deep in a book of hexes.

Later on, he saw John Watson meet his karma as the Gryffindor came passed him in the corridors as people headed for lunch. He wouldn’t have thought much of it if it weren’t for the fact that the second-year was walking on his hands, he stopped for a minute to acknowledge Mycroft.

“I swear to god your brother is a nightmare.”

Ah. That made much more sense. He hadn't taken John to be a gymnast.

“Sherlock’s doing, I imagine, off to the hall there should be action.” John looked at him confused, well Mycroft assumed it was confusion, the human face was more difficult to read upside down. He sighed before speaking again. “Greg is rather good you know, but we really have to go, food to eat, people to greet and mischief head to toe.”

Then June came around as daunting as ever, with exams and stress and panic. It didn’t help that this was the particular time England decided to have a heatwave.

Greg managed to drag him outside to study, insisting he’d die from the heat if he chose to study indoors, so he sat in the shade of a rather large tree by the lake. Mycroft had a book in his lap, furiously taking down notes as he read over the words. Greg was lying lazily at his side, not too far away, just outside the shadow that the branches cast overhead.

He was wearing a pair of normal black trousers, though he was considerably lacking as far as his torso went. _“I will actually murder before the heat does, you if you attempt to wear that blazer out there.”_ Was Greg’s threat, so he was left in his white dress shirt, tie abandoned, and the first two buttons undone.

It was a wise choice, but considerably out of his comfort zone as far as clothing went. He enjoyed the layers that masked his lanky, gaunt frame. Though he knew that age would come and stretch his fast metabolism into weight, that time had not come yet, so he needn’t worry about it.

Greg was wearing shorts and a dark grey vest top. Needless to say, he was quite the distraction.

The Gryffindor could tan, French relatives or something along those lines. So, he chose to make the most of the sun when it came to England, especially considering he couldn’t go to France this year either. And there he basked in the warmth of the sun, looking perfectly at peace.

Mycroft gazed at him somewhat pointedly, taking a break from reading. He couldn’t understand how Greg could be so calm, when their exams began in a couple days. Yes, they weren’t the final grades, those would come next year with buckets more stress, but these ones were still important.

“Yes, I know I should be studying. If I pretend I shouldn’t be it helps me relax. I can feel you staring at me, Myc.”

“I doubt that it is an effective method.” Mycroft mused, before getting up and setting the notes on the Gryffindor’s chest. “Quiz me then, maybe you’ll retain something as well.”

Greg sighed, pushing himself up and moving so he was sitting with his back against the oak tree, opposite Mycroft who had one knee drawn up to his chest, resting his chin on it. “Name of the potion that brings good fortune?”

“Felix Felicis.” He spoke quickly, Greg looked up at him with a raised eyebrow, and all he could do was shrug in response.

“Right. Colour?”

“Gold.”

“Yep. Powdered root of asphodel and infusion of wormwood makes?”

“Draught of living death.”

“Nice one, Myc.” Greg replied, and Mycroft smiled inwardly at the praise. “Major side effect of the Pepperup potion?”

“Steam from the ears for several hours after consumption.”

“Ding ding ding.” The Gryffindor laughed, with a nod. “Name three ingredients needed for a Polyjuice potion.”

“Fluxweed, leeches, and powdered Bicorn horn.”

“You know you really don’t need to be tested, you know them already.”

“It always helps to be sure.”

“Doesn’t good ol’ Severus love you though? You’re like the best in his class, _and_ Slytherin.”

“I am unaware of any fondness he might have for me, though I doubt it will help in the matter, besides I think he marks Slytherin’s more harshly.”

“Really? Tell that to my last potions exam. He took a mark off me for missing a comma.”

“I’m sure he did.” Mycroft replied, reaching for his defence against the dark arts book, but Greg grabbed his wrist to stop him. He cocked a brow at the Gryffindor, who stared him down until he dropped his hand from reaching for the book.

“You’re stressing Myc. I can see it, you do this every time. You work yourself up to a level even I can’t achieve. It’s summer, you’ve been revising since god knows when this morning, these aren’t even your final NEWTs, they’re predictive grades, mate. Just lie back and enjoy the weather alright?” His eyes were comforting, warm and welcoming, and the sincerity of his tone was enough to break the elder Holmes.

He was definitely going spineless in regard to Gregory Lestrade.

Mycroft sighed, and Greg’s face lit up into a smile, knowing he’d won. “Given my pale complexion I am literally predisposed to not enjoying this kind of weather.”

“Yes, you are the rain-man with a dozen umbrellas.”

“Half-a-dozen.” Mycroft corrected him. One for every day of the working week and one with a sword in the handle, gift from Sherlock, one of his better ones in fact, even If it was just a ploy to get him to play Pirates.

“That’s not much better.” Greg laughed, standing up. “Well, I’m gonna lie in the sun, and you’re gonna lie in the shade, and I’m gonna hold your hand because I know it calms you down.” He added, flopping onto the grass where the sun shone bright and warm, closing his eyes.

He had a knack for simply falling back onto ground like there was no risk of injury, it was quite fascinating to say the least, very entertaining to watch at the most.

Mycroft didn’t lie down, but he sat instead, cross legged, with his hands in his lap ignoring the fact that Greg had his hand held out for the prefect to take it.  

“There’s people here.” He muttered, surveying the grounds, people were mingling around trying to make the most of the bright summer weather. Some were like Greg in their sunbathing, others were walking, there was a group near the lake standing in a circle tossing a frisbee around.

It was unlikely anyone would take notice. But Greg was the Gryffindor Seeker, and potential new captain of the quidditch team, he couldn’t ruin his reputation. He knew fully well that those who still obsessed over blood purity were also very against most other minorities as well, and if one of them saw, it wouldn’t take long for it to spread around the castle. Not even Anthea could shut down school rumours.

“So?” Greg asked, blocking the sun from his eyes, he looked up at Mycroft concerned.

“Won’t you be annoyed if somebody says something?” He asked.

Greg untensed and allowed his head to drop back with a gentle smile. “I did kickboxing until I came here, if people want to chat shit, they can at their own risk.” He replied, holding his hand out again, more deliberately.

“So scary.” Mycroft muttered, taking his hand and squeezing it before lying down, the grass was cool beneath him, and the warm summer air was cut through by a gentle breeze. He allowed his head to stop turning for a moment to appreciate the simplicity that a summer day seemed to bring.

“I try.” He paused for a minute before talking again. “You know it’s fine to be not okay. I know you don’t like seeming weak, but it isn’t weak. People have off days, even you.” His thumb was rubbing circles into the back of the prefect’s hand, which was comforting.

He bit his lip and made an attempt to change the subject. “Are you going to visit this summer? I think mother will combust if she doesn’t get to meet you for the second year in a row.”

“Sure, if you want. And don’t try to distract me, Myc. I’m not having two conversations at once.” The Gryffindor spoke softly, squeezing Mycroft’s hand.  

The Slytherin sighed, “Yes fine, I apologise. I know, people have days like that, but it seems ridiculous to mope when I could be productive.”

“That’s not helping the issue, strangling yourself with revision and stuff. So just lie and breathe and relax for a bit. And if you want to talk about anything I'm listening. And if not then fresh air is good for you anyway.”

The prefect didn’t speak for a while, to allow himself to breathe, and Greg, to his word, didn’t press anything or ask any questions.

“So, you are coming over this summer then?” Mycroft replied after a moment of thought, deciding against asking the more awkward questions that had been rattling around his skull for months at this point. Even though he’d done his best to lock them in a box and store them away in the very back crevices of his mind, they did still linger.

“Unless you want to come visit me in muggle hell, then yeah. Dad’d be glad to get a bit of peace.”

“Sherlock will likely invite John, we have a bit of land if you want to play, I know you’ll bring your broom.”

Greg hummed like he was thinking. “Maybe, but you’ll have to geek out over your garden for me first, I know you added more over Christmas.”

“As you wish, Gregory.”

“You’re the only person who calls me that.” He mused.

“You’re the only person who calls me Myc, consider us even.” The prefect replied, and Greg squeezed his hand, Mycroft knew he’d be smiling in that moment. Despite the fact he claimed otherwise, the nickname had started to grow on him, though he wasn’t sure if it was because he was gradually liking the name itself, or Greg more as time moved on.

“Why do we only talk like this lying down? It’s like I get your horizontal and all your apprehensions about idle conversation go out the door.”

“That’s because it isn’t idle conversation, and I quite enjoy it. It began with you comforting me, or at least I think that’s what that was. It worked, by the way.”

“It was.”

“There also isn’t the expectation of eye-contact when you’re staring at the sky. It’s generally easier to talk when it feels like you’re talking to yourself.”

“But I still know I’m talking to you.”

“Only now you can’t see how much I’m judging you.” Greg elbowed him in the ribs and he choked out a startled laugh. “Joking, of course.”

“Christ you’re a weirdo.”

“And you’re the best friend of said weirdo, so I think that’s a good judge of your character.”

“Still a weirdo.”

“As you wish.”

 

**

 

Sherlock wasn’t all too surprised when John started dating Sarah Sawyer.

What surprised him was how much it _hurt_.

Sarah was on the Gryffindor team. She was their chaser. And true to her name she’d been chasing John since the day he joined the team.

She was a third year, pale eyes, dark hair, relatively clever, at least that’s what John said. “Hardly as clever as you though, then again most people aren’t. Better than me I guess is what I mean.”

“Even at quidditch?” Sherlock had asked with a coy smile as he looked at John across the table. It always made him happy that John had at least one thing he was undoubtedly confident in.

“God no.” He’d laughed in response, before he turned the book around to sherlock like he usually did, pointing out the part he’d struggled with, and been too embarrassed to ask McGonagall about.

They’d only been officially going out for a week when John missed his tutoring session. It was the first time that had happened since the incident with the quaffle and breathing difficulties.

Sherlock waited for ten minutes, just as he’d done before. Then he got frustrated, shoving his books into his bag and offering a wave and a smile through his frustration at the librarian, before storming out of the library.

He didn’t even have to go to Greg because he got two steps out of the library when he saw them, hand in hand walking down the corridor in his direction. They were talking about something that wasn’t nearly as funny as John’s laughter would mean it to be.

John’s hair was wet, he wasn’t even wearing his favourite jumper with a hole in the sleeve, opting for a t-shirt instead despite the fact that it was raining outside and the moisture from his hair would be freezing him.

He was trying to impress her then. His t-shirts were probably the only clothing he had that looked decent with the distress in his jeans.

He’d skipped his tutoring, missed it maybe, to hang out with Sarah Sawyer. Sherlock wasn’t sure why, but that felt like betrayal of the highest calibre. He went out of his way to help John, help him with something he needed, something he’d never done for another person before in his life, and John had the audacity to stab him in the gut by replacing him.

It was a replacement wasn’t it?

That’s what girlfriends were, they came and replaced your friends no matter how close you were before-hand to either party, because romantic relationships seemed to tower over platonic ones in the hierarchy of association.

The sight of them together made his stomach turn, and he turned on his heel to walk the opposite direction before they noticed.

Curse the universe that John for once in his imbecilic existence _did_ notice him. “Sherlock! C’mere!” He called, and reluctantly, Sherlock turned around, so not to cause a scene, so not to embarrass the traitor, walking over to the couple and trying desperately hard to keep his boiling annoyance off his features. “Sherlock, this is Sarah, you know her right?”

He cocked his head, studying her for a few seconds before responding, words quick, eyes nowhere near her or John, desperate to leave. “Yes, chaser for Gryffindor. You should wear your glasses next time you play, as your eyesight depreciates so does your aim, whilst Lestrade is good, you can’t rely on him to make up points by catching the snitch.”

Sherlock managed not to grin as she dropped John’s hand and went a brilliant shade of pink in embarrassment. “O-Oh, uhm, I-“ She stammered as John furrowed his brow, partially in annoyance with Sherlock but partially in confusion with Sarah.

Now he’d fought fire with fire, he thought it best to extinguish the mess, in the hopes that John wouldn’t bring it up to him the next time they spoke, though considering the inexplicable ache in Sherlock’s chest he doubted that would be soon. “Ah, seemingly the glasses are a secret, I wouldn’t, you squint too much for it to be a secret. Get a pair that’s somewhat stylish and you should be fine, round features, I’d say a rounded rectangle frame would do. Retro is coming into style though. I’ll see you next week then John. Enjoy your afternoon.”

He turned his back to them and walked away before anymore words could be exchanged. He felt ill, which was new, and quite frankly he just wanted to collapse into his bed and never get out of it, also new.

That was one of the most awful things he’d ever had to do in his life.

It would have been so much easier for him to have stood there and told her that John wasn’t at all convinced by her make-up drawn eyebrows, and that he did find her laugh quite annoying. But John would’ve probably hit him if he said that, or worse, stopped being his friend, at least until the inevitable breakup, but the possibility of a longer duration was enough for him to shut his mouth.  

He did his best to ignore the stares as the marched through the Ravenclaw commons, before it got too much and his last resort came to taking a book from his bag and hurling at the wall, expression blank, mouth wordless, narrowly missing the head of Victor Trevor.

Ignoring the glare given to him by the prefect, he walked practically silent up to the dormitories before falling into the sheets of his bed, fresh, clean, barely used.

To his own surprise and relief, he clocked out rather quickly, his brain shutting down for a few blissful moments of peace where he didn’t have to live through the thought of John Watson suddenly getting rid of him for Sarah Sawyer.

He didn’t go down to dinner when the rest of the boys vacated the dorms, instead choosing to lie back and collect himself, not quite sleeping again but almost there, if he just relaxed a little more.

For the life of him he couldn’t make sense of the metaphysical pain that overcame his as he’d stared at them in the hall. He couldn’t understand why he’d stared either. Why it bothered him so much.

It didn’t make any sense.

A tap from the window knocked everything off course, startling him so far into falling off his bed.

He opened his eyes with a groan to see a school issued owl outside the window, tapping at the glass again once he looked up.

The Ravenclaw opened the window, allowing the owl inside a moment whilst he read the letter in its grasp.

_People have girlfriends, brother mine, its what they do, what they crave; Mindless affection._

_It would suit you best for now, to keep contact to a minimum until he concludes their relationship. Afterwards, how you comfort him may dictate his responses to your attraction._

_Chin up. I worry about you._

  * _MH_



He’d stopped his silent protest against his brother before the Christmas holidays, after the Slytherin cornered him and demanded to know what he’d done to anger the younger Holmes.

Though that situation had been since resolved, so there was no use in dwelling on it.

_Stick to worrying about your boyfriend. I’m fine, Mycroft._

  * _SH_



He scribbled the note out on a scrap piece of parchment, before rolling it up and giving it to the Owl, who clasped it in her claws. Smiling gently, he offered her a soft stroke to the head, using his knuckles, before he opened the window and watched her fly.

 

**

 

Sherlock found John in the clearing in the forest at four in the morning, the day before the final quidditch match of the year.

He’d woken up from yet another nightmare about his mum, this time it had been a mandrake of all things that killed her.

The panic set in once again, heart beat quickened, breathing difficult, hands shaking so badly he could barely control them. He clocked it all at once, they were the symptoms, it was happening again, and he’d sprinted.

He was sitting with his face in his knees, crying when Sherlock found him. The Ravenclaw sat in front of him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“John. You’re going to be fine you know. On the pitch, you always are, always brilliant.”

He hadn't seen sherlock outside of lessons and tutoring for a while, the Ravenclaw seemed to have stopped attending meals. He had missed Sherlock completely for the week they got flooded with exams.

He was actually starting to think he’d done something to annoy the Ravenclaw, that he didn’t want to be John’s friend anymore. Sure, he had Sarah now, but Sherlock was so much different to her.

Maybe that’s was raised the sickness in his throat, maybe that’s what roused the nightmare from the depths of his mind but blaming it on nerves for the quidditch match seemed like the easier, simpler option.

He didn’t doubt that Sherlock was looking at him now, curled up in a vest top and a ridiculous pair of tartan pyjama bottoms, curled in on himself in a way that could hardly be considered comfortable. He didn’t doubt that the Ravenclaw was sat cross-legged deducing him just by the positioning of his hands or how tensed his shoulder was beneath the younger boy’s palm.

Because that’s what Sherlock did.

Surprisingly, yet unsurprisingly, he’d missed it.

“Here.” Sherlock’s voice came again, and something soft was draped over his shoulders, falling down his back, surrounding him in a soft sense of comfort, of safety. “You’re bound to be freezing.”

“You know the thing you did last time this happened?” John spoke, his voice was muffled as his head was still pressed into his legs. “Could you do it again?”

He collapsed from the curled-up position when Sherlock’s arms wound around his waist. He didn’t know how much he liked that Sherlock was taller than him, but he supposed in times like this it was useful.

His head, just like last time, met Sherlock’s chest, covered in a jumper. Now he had both the warmth of the Ravenclaw and the blanket around him.

“I thought I pissed you off.” John muttered after some time of just sitting there.

“No.” Sherlock replied simply.

Maybe John imagined it, but with his ear pressed against Sherlock’s chest he could’ve sworn he heard his heartbeat speed up. Now would’ve been a spectacular time to have had his stethoscope.

“Aren’t you going to be annoyed if we win tomorrow?” John asked, after again, a considerable amount of silence.

“No, why would I be- Oh, you’re expecting house loyalty aren’t you? Quite frankly I don’t give two shits, I'm coming to watch you. And I'm coming to watch you win, so win.”

“No promises.” John replied with a gentle laugh. Suddenly the rest of the world didn’t feel like it existed anymore. It was just him, and Sherlock, talking, laughing. No pressure to look nice or give compliments like there was with Sarah.

“Don’t be boring John, you’ve got far too much potential to be boring.” Sherlock grumbled, squeezing John closer as if the gesture would shut him up. What it did was constrict John’s arms so the only comfortable place for them was around Sherlock’s waist, so there they resided with no complaints from either boy.

“Christ I really must be dreaming if you’re resorting to flattery.”

“I must be dreaming if you’re not responding hostile to a compliment.”

“Oh shut up.” John groaned, annoyed into his chest.

Sherlock laughed. “There it is.”

John fell asleep not long after that, the sound of Sherlock reciting nothing that really mattered off the top of his head was enough to lull him into being dead to the world. He’d never really taken the time to think that Sherlock’s voice was deeper than anyone his age was, not by much, but enough for the sound to be calming.

He was shaken awake too soon to be wanted, but opened his eyes anyway, realising that he was still pressed against Sherlock, and the younger boy was still awake.

“Breakfast will begin soon, Sarah will be annoyed if you’re late again.”

John pushed himself away from Sherlock’s hold, standing up and rubbing his eyes. It took him a minute to come to his senses before responding. “Uhm actually, I was wondering if I could sit with you? You’re pretty good at calming me down before matches.” He turned toward the secret door in the tree, so Sherlock couldn’t see how his face went hot after the request.

“At your own risk, then.”


	7. The Summer Holidays

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ughghgh I'm so tired, somebody help me
> 
> some cute shit here and some cute shit to come so like, stick around i guess 
> 
> Your boy has a plan, even if it doesnt really seem like it

Gryffindor won the quidditch cup.

Ravenclaw had played fiercely, though they didn’t stand a chance in the end, everyone knew, nobody dared say, but the Gryffindor team simply had the best players. The red team simply went as hard as they could, which was hard enough to break through tactics and coerced technique rehearsed over months. The match drew out for almost five hours, people were tiring, leaving, falling asleep in the warm weather. Mycroft was beginning to realise why muggle sports kept a time limit, as he sat in the shade of one of his umbrellas so not to burn, watching the match intently with his fist propped on his hand. Quidditch was far more exciting than he’d originally given it credit for, if he wasn’t focusing on Greg, he was focusing on the beaters and the bludgers, or the chaser, or the keeper, maybe even three of them at once given the circumstances.

Though he supposed he’d inevitably get bored of it after enough matches, things like this could only be exciting for so long.

Greg was getting tired, his reactions were slowing ever so slightly, but once he had eyes on the snitch it didn’t take long for him to catch up to it. If he got it now there would be no hope of the blue house taking over, so he had to go.

John true to everything about his character, was reliable, focused, determined, but it wasn’t hard to tell his stamina was running out. Ravenclaw had been able to score a total of five shots, one every hour, almost like it was planned. Any other shot didn’t have a hope, much to the frustration of the Ravenclaw chaser.

Greg caught the snitch in a tumble of glory, and the crowd clicked back into full gear as an uproar of applause cried out over the pitch.

“That’s a fractured wrist.” Mycroft muttered to himself, almost in amusement, as he got up from the stands, trying his best to avoid the crowds in order to find his friend.

He caught Greg in the nick of time, dragging him into the dimmed depths of one of the stands much to his futile protests. Taking Greg’s hand in his, he pulled up the Gryffindor’s sleeve, he frowned and tutted before finding his wand.

Greg didn’t say anything, and instead chose to watch Mycroft as he worked, trying he focus on the gentle caress of nimble fingers over his arm, rather than the dull pain that ached from his wrist.  He moved his fingers when asked, turning his hand as far as possible without the sharp pain crying up his arm, trying not to grimace as the Slytherin gently prodded at his wrist.

“Episkey.” He spoke gently, and Greg gasped, clenching his fist tight for a minute as the effects of the spell worked themselves into his skin, before flexing his wrist. “Healing spell, to save you the visit to Promfrey. I’m sure your team are waiting Gregory.”

There was an odd sense of serenity, as they stood there for a moment in somewhat contented silence. Footsteps and voices rattling outside but they were alone, save for the other.

“Thanks Myc.” His voice was soft, his eyes still fixed on Mycroft’s in a way that practically stole the breath from him.

And a second kiss to the side of his face was given, in the dimly lit quidditch stand.

Ravenclaw won the house cup, with a lot of help from Sherlock, though that wasn’t really a shocking revelation. He’d been doing well in classes, and one particular event, in which he’d calmed the growth of a particularly dangerous plant in the greenhouse, had given him one hundred points on the spot.

The head boy and girl held up the cup, and a roar went up from the table of blue, alongside him, and to his surprise, John Watson. It was unexpected given the Gryffindor’s quidditch born sense of house loyalty. Maybe he wasn’t as much of an idiot as Mycroft had thought.

Then it was the train home, and more mindless supervision until he could sit beside his friends. This time he sat beside Greg, rather than across. He ignored Anthea’s eyebrow raise in favour of staring out the window when Greg took his hand, leaning against the prefect as he began to fall asleep. He found it rather difficult to keep his somewhat dignified composure when there was a very attractive Gryffindor pressed against him and breathing onto his neck. By some miracle, he managed, and Anthea didn’t speak a word.

This time he gave her a quick side embrace and a smile, rather than a curt nod with a stiff upper lip, he made a promise to write to her over the summer, knowing she’d get sick of the muggle world again after enough time.

“Alright, Boss.” He rolled his eyes at the nickname. “You really need to get yourself a phone though.” She’d told him, before walking off to find her sister in the swarm of students.

This time he hugged Greg before the Gryffindor had to meet his dad outside the station for the drive to their Croydon flat.

Greg was quite surprised, just like he’d been the first time after the quidditch match. When Mycroft had told him that he didn’t mind hugging it was usually Greg that initiated it from then on. Most times it was after a particular draining quidditch practice, when everything in his body was spent but the stress bottled up in it, then he’d find Mycroft and ask to be held. So, when the prefect hugged him on his own volition, it was a special occasion.

“I don’t want to go.” Greg murmured so quietly Mycroft almost didn’t catch it.

The Slytherin smiled softly in agreeance before he collected himself enough to respond. “It’s not forever Gregory, you’ll see me again before you know it.”

And so he did.

The Holmes household was nothing shy of what he expected, bigger than was definitely necessary for four people, there was a fantastic looking greenhouse and an extravagantly built tree-house that seemed to evoke some childlike giddiness as Greg looked at it all, as he stepped out of the black car and onto the gravel driveway.

Mycroft had met him at the station, and then their driver brought them home. Because of course they had a driver.

He’d be spending the end of the summer holidays with the Holmes family, as Lydia had proposed to his father that they could bring him to Kings Cross in September.

“So, what do you think?” Mycroft asked, he was somewhat nervous, given that this was Greg’s first impression of an entirely magic household. From what he knew, the Gryffindor didn’t see much of his mother, so their house was relatively free from magic, except for some photographs and post-cards.

“Its fantastic.” Greg breathed, glancing over at Mycroft with a smile.

“If you want to leave your broom in the shed you can, though I'm sure my parents wouldn’t be opposed to looking at what you use.” The prefect spoke, grabbing Greg’s trunk before he could, and heading inside.

To say he was nervous was an understatement, he was worried about his parent’s opinions on Greg and Greg’s opinions on his parents, and all the possibilities were circulating in his head, churning like a tormented sea.

Though he supposed he had nothing to worry about, as by the time he got back downstairs the Gryffindor was having what sounded like a pleasant conversation with his mother. His father was out at work but had ensured Mycroft that he’d be home for dinner in order to meet the boy that had _apparently_ changed him. All good changes, he was assured.

“I kinda just had to jump for it, hurt my wrist pretty badly but Myc fixed it in no time.” Greg spoke he was standing somewhat awkwardly in their kitchen, hands shoved into the pockets of his shorts. “You’d need to ask John about the fall though, that one was all his glory, poor bugger dislocated his shoulder.”

“Yes,” Mycroft spoke, inserting himself into the conversation. “When will he be arriving?”

“Tomorrow I think, Sherry is going positively mad having to wait.” She gave Mycroft a knowing look that made his stomach drop.

“Tell me he hasn’t touched my greenhouse.” Mummy Holmes simply raised her eyebrows and took a sip of her tea. “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Mycroft groaned, running toward the back exist of the house. He could hear Greg following in tow, laughing to himself as he followed behind. The last time Sherlock had invaded Mycroft’s greenhouse alone he’d decided to test which acids kill exotic primrose the quickest.

If there was anything in the world that could make Mycroft run, it was his little brother within a ten-metre radius of his plants.

“Sherlock you gormless pillock! I swear to god if you-“ He stopped dead in his tracks to find Sherlock simply standing, wand somewhat sheathed in the belt loop of his jeans, looking at Mycroft with mock confusion and concern.

“I wouldn’t, I’ve been told he doesn’t appreciate it.” He replied, the expression fading from his face into neutral, with hints of amusement.

Mycroft sighed, breathing beginning to slow now he’d calmed down, he supposed Sherlock was _trying_ to get under his skin. “And you’ve also been told not to be in here without my supervision.”

“I don’t listen to a lot of things you say, this is no different. I was watering your roses, the phrase you’re looking for is thank you.” He pointed to the watering can that was hovering over the roses of all different colours.

“Forgive my anger brother mine, though you can understand it given your previous form.”

“I was nine, Mycroft.”

“Yes, now you’re thirteen, much more capable and just as more curious.”

“Oh, hello George.”

“His name is Greg.”

“And yours is Myc, I know your little arrangement, that’s secret number one used.” Mycroft frowned, as his little brother sauntered from the greenhouse as though he’d just earned a Nobel Prize.

“What?...” He muttered quietly to himself, trailing off before turning to Greg. “Apologies for that, he can be… Well he can be him, I think that says enough.”

“Too right,” Greg laughed, taking a nervous step around the greenhouse. “I think he’s made it a game never to call me by my actual name.”

“Well I told you I’d show you, so this is it.” Mycroft spoke, making a half-hearted gesture. This wasn’t really how he’d planned it to go down, trust Sherlock to ruin that. “Nothing too dangerous, well, nothing that can hurt you if you’re careful.”

“Yes, because bloody fanged roses are perfectly harmless.” Greg replied, keeping his distance from them as much as he could in the slightly squashed greenhouse. The prefect wanted to make the comment that the roses were perfectly clean, the last time they’d drawn blood was when they’d been planted, and Mycroft had been careless enough to take off his gloves anywhere near them.

“Here, eat that.” Mycroft said suddenly, turning from one of the larger and less magical looking plants, handing him a leave that looked an awful lot like mint.

Greg’s face twisted in surprise as he ate it, it did not taste like mint. “That’s, chocolate?”

Mycroft smiled at him, quite pleased. “Took me twenty-three attempts, two of them ended up tasting like vomit.” He remarked, taking a leaf for himself before grabbing Greg’s hand, pulling him toward the back.

“How does that even work? Wait no- I don’t want to know.” The Gryffindor replied shaking his head in disbelief. “Levitating pansies aren’t they?”

He was staring at a ton of floating flowers, that seemed to be contained in some kind of magic cylinder to stop them from straying, as they bounced against the sides, floating lazily, mesmerising.

“Correct. Quite fastidious to get stable but I managed.”

“’Course you did.” Greg dropped Mycroft’s hand in favour of approaching a plant that had been particularly sensitive as of late, resulting in Mycroft’s gardening shirt being destroyed by fertiliser turned acidic when he got to close.

“I wouldn’t go near the snapdragon, Gregory.”

They left the greenhouse when the heat became unbearable, and Greg insisted they just walk about the grounds of the house as his legs had cramped from sitting still on the train.

For the most part there was silence, just the summer breeze and the birds, and an occasional noise from inside the house.

“I think he thinks we’re dating.” Greg spoke suddenly, he was looking at Sherlock who was wordlessly throwing a ball and summoning it to himself again. The Gryffindor likely viewed it as a game, Mycroft saw it for what it was, an experiment. He was trying to see how far away an item could be that he could still summon without an incantation.

Though he stopped focusing on what Sherlock was doing, and more on what Greg had just said, and what that meant. “Oh.” He replied simply, unable to wrack his brains for a better response than that. “I can tell him we aren’t if you want, I’d get the secret back.”

“I don’t mind.”

Mycroft could only hum in response to that, his left hand was beginning to feel weirdly empty.

 

**

 

Sherlock tried to pay attention to what John was saying, as they drove back to the Holmes residence in the family’s black car, the driver just as silent as always.

Unfortunately, what he was saying was the last thing Sherlock really wanted to hear right now.

He hadn't been able to say goodbye to John before school went out. The Gryffindor had been too caught up in the celebration of the Quidditch cup and got the train home in a carriage with Sarah, and her group of friends. Sherlock chose to sit with some of the nicer older Ravenclaw’s who he sat near in the great hall. They didn’t particularly acknowledge his existence but made an effort to speak to him occasionally throughout the journey, even though he ignored them anyway.

He suspected John had tried to find him to say goodbye once they got to Kings Cross, but once he noticed the Gryffindor looking for somebody, he melted into the crowd to avoid him.

He didn’t really know why he’d done it, but something flared up inside his head that made the thought of speaking to John in that moment seem sickening, anxiety inducing maybe, so he’d chosen to avoid the feeling.

Sarah’s parents wanted to meet John anyway, it would be stupid to keep him from that.

John was laughing, and Sherlock clicked back into reality again, turning his head from the window to look at him. “Can you believe she got pissed at me for only letting five goals through? She’s mates with the Ravenclaw seeker, I couldn’t bloody believe it, talk about house loyalty.”

“I don’t have it.” Sherlock spoke pointedly.

The Gryffindor nodded, “Yeah but you don’t play quidditch for your house, its like a rule. Once you’re in a match its Gryffindor or nothing.”

“I suppose. I could tell you missed them intentionally, if you’re wondering. I didn’t realise that Samantha was the reason why.”

“Sarah.”

“Right, my apologies. We have a library, one that you can actually cast spells in, so if you want to go over anything to refresh yourself, we have the time.” Sherlock replied, in a desperate attempt to change the subject, talking about Sarah was the thing he wanted to _avoid_ doing.

“Fancy.” John muttered.

“You think so?”

He laughed at that. “My dad’s flat barely has a book in it besides maybe a porno mag, never mind a full library. Yeah its pretty swank, mate.”

“Father will be pleased to hear it. The swank part, not the pornography.”

“I gathered.” John paused for a minute before his face lit up. “Hold on I have a thing for you.” He rummaged in the backpack at his feet, before pulling out a box wrapped in newspaper, with a Tesco premade bow stuck to the top of it. “I couldn’t find any actual wrapping. Mycroft wouldn’t tell me exactly when your birthday was, he said it was in summer, so I uh, I brought you something.” He handed it to Sherlock, who took it gratefully, analysing the weight to try and guess what it was, it was heavier than he expected.

John had always been quite thoughtful, never in the right places if he was honest. He used his heart for a lot of things except his casting and writing. Those were the things he used his head for, even though he probably shouldn’t.

Sherlock found that using the heart for more than blood circulation as tiresome and resulted in hurt, so he’d stopped a while ago.

He appreciated sometimes, that John had not.

“Oh, thank you. Should I open it now?” His birthday had been a little while ago, but he didn’t want to give John any indication of it, most things about him, the older boy could work out if he observed, the date Sherlock was born, was a secret he’d like to keep.

“If you’d like.”

He undid the wrapping with careful fingers. Inside was a white box with a multicoloured cube on it, split into nine cubes visible on each face. It was decorated with a logo that he didn’t recognise, muggle then.

He turned the box over in his hands, trying to find any indication on what he was supposed to do with it.

He appreciated the gift, and he was sure he would like it, he just didn’t understand it.

“I thought you might like it, it’s a puzzle toy, you mix it up and try to get it back to looking like that. I'm no good with them, it’d take me a year to get it, but I thought you’d enjoy it.” John told him, realising what was wrong.

“How do I say that?” Sherlock asked, opening the box, realising if he said it wrong John would find it immediately hilarious, he’d learned his lesson after the television incident.

“Rubik’s.” John replied simply, he didn’t sound it out in syllables like he was talking to a child. Most muggle-borns were prone to doing that to purebloods. Then again he supposed it was a pleasantry that came as a result of Sherlock not babying him when it came to incantations. “Some Hungarian bloke made it in the seventies.” John replied, reading off the back of the packaging that had been discarded onto the middle seat.

The Ravenclaw handed the cube to John, who looked at him confused. “Mix it up, it’ll be no fun if I do, make it a challenge.” John rolled his eyes, but he was giving Sherlock that smile of amazement he did when Sherlock was being particularly clever, or helpful.

Sherlock looked out the window before John prodded him in the ribs, handing him the cube back, thoroughly mixed.

John continued to talk as Sherlock made his way about twisting the cube back into the right colour scheme. He was pretty sure that John knew he wasn’t listening, he’d be just as well off talking into the wind, but he didn’t mind, the puzzle wasn’t challenging enough to elicit a need for silence.

He had it done by the time the car arrived at their home.

“Christ, remind me to get you a more difficult one next time.” John laughed, as he looked at the now solved Rubik’s cube Sherlock was tossing between his hands, slightly agitated from being stuck in the car for so long.

“It was quite enjoyable.”

“I don’t doubt it.” John replied, it wasn’t until he got out of the car to grab his stuff from the boot did Sherlock notice the bruises littered up his arms. They ranged in size, and colour, some brown, some black, some blue, some sickening mixtures of all three.

He frowned as he looked at them. Abuse? It wasn’t unlikely given the alcoholic nature of John’s father, maybe that was the reason John looked so relieved the moment he stepped off the train. Suddenly the ache of concern swarmed in Sherlock’s stomach.

John caught him staring, once he’d shouldered the hockey bag he kept his broom in. “Oh, uhm, Rugby, no big shakes.”

That was another thing he’d learned in the months of their friendship, and the thing that made the concern grow rather than dissipate.

John Watson was a terrible liar.

 

**

 

Dinner with the Holmes family was nicer than he expected.

Both of Sherlock’s parents are perfectly normal, welcoming and kind. John was quite surprised given the two robots they’d produced as children. Then again, his father was an alcoholic and his mother suffered from presumed Stockholm syndrome, yet he turned out pretty normal as far as he was concerned. He thanked them for the Christmas present and the Easter egg they’d sent to him whilst he was still at school, and they waved him off with a knowing smile.

“Greg told me yesterday about your quidditch heroics.” Sherlock’s father, Conrad as he’d been instructed to call him, said, as they ate.

The conversation had ranged from praise of Greg and John for normalising their sons, both of which had scowled at them as they did so. To talk of what acid killed off exotic primrose the quickest and Mycroft glaring at Sherlock so harshly John suspected he was plotting murder in his mind.

John swallowed, before offering a bashful smile, feeling heat rush to his cheeks. “I’d hardly call them heroics. I mean he could’ve died from the fall, I was hardly going to sit and watch. Hurt like hell on my arm though.”

“Spoken like a true Gryffindor.” Sherlock’s mother, Lydia, replied with a proud smile and both Mycroft and Sherlock rolled their eyes, John supposed snark ran in the family as well as deductions. Despite his knowledge of the two being brothers, he’d never actually seen them side by side. Well exempt from the train station at the beginning of last year.

“What’re you planning to do once you leave Hogwarts?”

John hated that question. He hated thinking about his future. A future that had somewhat been taken from him by wizardry, simply because he sucked major horse cock at wizardry itself. He’d been good at his sciences back in muggle school. He had a plan.

Then his Hogwarts letter came, along with a half giant knocking at his door. Followed by buckets of frustration because he couldn’t even do the simplest of spells.

“I don’t know. I'm not really good at much.” He replied honestly, trying not to acknowledge the shocked look on both Conrad and Lydia’s faces.

Sherlock coughed something that sounded suspiciously like “Liar.” Before taking a drink of water. “Sorry, dry throat.” He excused it as, and John kicked him under the table, noticing him try to stifle a grin.

“I like the idea of being a healer, but I don’t think I’ll ever be at the right casting level. When I was little I liked the idea of joining the army, so I might do that.”

“Going back to muggle life? It’s a difficult thing, son.” Conrad replied.

“Father works for progressive wizardry at the ministry, he’s enrolled in a muggle university, that’s why he has a phone.” Sherlock explained, and John nodded, though he hadn't even realised progressive wizardry was a thing.

“Speaking of phones, Anthea is demanding I get one, she refuses to write to me anymore.” Mycroft spoke, leaning on his fist, done with his meal and starting to bore.

Conrad raised a gentle hand to silence them. “All that will be sorted, ‘Croft, but I was talking to John if I remember.” He gave a smile before turning to the youngest Gryffindor at the table. “You realise it will be a challenge? Not to discourage you by any means.”

“I don’t doubt it. I just want to be able to help people.” John replied, shrugging, it was nice to have a civil conversation with someone, he hadn't had anyone to talk to other than Harry when she came round.

Lydia nodded. “Also spoken like a true Gryffindor.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes so hard John was surprised they didn’t fall back into his head. “Forgive my mother, John. She’s just quite pleased to be surrounded by her own kind.” He wrinkled his nose in mock disgust before taking a sip of his own drink.

“You’re out-numbered now, Myc.” Greg piped up, and John snorted, trying to hide it by taking a drink.

Conrad laughed. “Merlin save us.”

The meal was over in ample time, Sherlock was going to show him a spell he’d been working on over the summer but as he went to follow the younger boy, a hand caught his shoulder. He turned to see Mycroft, looking not unlike professor Snape with the stern look he had fixated on the younger boy.

“There’s a few books in the library I think will help with your studies, come so I can show you them.” He spoke it more like an order than a suggestion, and John got the impression he didn’t really have a choice, so rather than kick up a fuss, he chose to comply.

“I’ll be there in a sec, Mycroft wants me for something.”

“Disarm him and deck him in the face if he tries to kill you, won’t you?” Sherlock replied, and John grinned at him, shaking his head. He supposed Sherlock had realised that his posh accent paired with slang was highly entertaining. “Your disarmament charm was quite good the last time we practiced. Flitwick was impressed if I remember right.”

“Yeah, thanks by the way. Though, I doubt it’ll come to that.”

“Think of me when you do it.” Sherlock called over his shoulder as he walked away, and John ran to catch up with the prefect.

Mycroft locked the door with a silent spell, casted only with a wave of his hand, and John swallowed realising that he may actually have something to be afraid of. The library was quite big, not as big as the one in school, but from floor to ceiling the walls were bookshelves. It was quite a magnificent sight.

“I’m sure you’ve realised by now that I’m not here to talk to you about books.” He spoke, the stern tone to his voice sent an uncomfortable shiver down John’s spine and made his skin prickle with unease.

John laughed. “What could’ve given that away? The lack of choice or the charm on the door?” If he could make a joke out of it maybe he wouldn’t feel so threatened. It wasn’t like Mycroft was actually going to do anything to him, right?

“You could very easily unlock it, though I’m betting on your anxiety failing out the charm.”

“How do you know about the anxiety, did Sherlock tell you?”

Mycroft shook his head. “Sherlock keeps his secrets, but he isn’t the only Holmes that can read people. I do it better, in fact.”

“I’m sure. So why am I here?”

The elder Holmes frowned at John, like he was supposed to know. “Sherlock, I thought that was quite obvious.”

“Obvious, yeah, everything is obvious isn’t it?” The Gryffindor shoved his hands into his pockets, he didn’t like when Sherlock said it, but he tolerated it. Somehow Mycroft saying it made his urge to punch him very real.

“To me, yes.”

John took in a breath, trying to keep his cool, he didn’t want to panic, and he didn’t want to get angry, the most he could do was stand there and act like he was fine, and not freaking out in a locked room with a skilled wizard who could easily do anything to him. “So, what about him?”

“I’m sure you’re aware at this point that you are his only friend.”

“Yeah, of course I know.” He frowned, it wasn’t exactly a secret that Sherlock didn’t have any friends, he shrugged of or scoffed at most other people, except maybe Greg, and he hadn't been too mean to Sarah the only time he’d spoken to her, he’d even gone so far as to tell her what glasses would suit her best.

“And you may also be aware that your friendship with him has benefitted him in ways, mostly social, but we’ll take what we can get. He was generally not very good with people before you began this companionship you seem to have with him.”

“He’s still not good with people.” John replied, that was also fairly obvious.

“He’s better.” Mycroft replied. “Though, what you don’t seem to notice is that now, at this point in time, you are hurting him John.”

The words echoed in John’s head before he could truly register what exactly they meant. “How? I haven’t laid a hand on him I swear, I would never. He fell off my broom once but there wasn’t really much I could do about that.”

Mycroft ran a hand over his eyes, like he was talking to the biggest dunce on the planet. “I don’t mean physically, you idiot. You know you didn’t say goodbye to him before we departed for summer?”

“I couldn’t find him at the station, he didn’t sit with us on the train, he doesn’t like Sarah’s friends.” John shrugged, it was hardly his fault, he’d tried to find him, but it was busy, full of students eager to get home, and Sarah was insistent on dragging him to meet her family.

“Yes, but he likes you and you made no effort to accompany him, even though you’re aware he has nobody else.”

John rolled his eyes, now Mycroft was being the idiot in the room. “Sarah’s my girlfriend Mycroft, Sherlock’s just my mate, there’s certain social normalities you have to abide.” He wanted to add _not that you’d know anything about that_ but it would’ve been too mean to say out loud, he was sure his tone put the message across anyway.

“It’s all a case of have and want. All I'm here to do, is to remind you that in the inevitable fall, you will want him there to catch you, so I wouldn’t ditch him now.”

That didn’t make any sense whatsoever. Was Mycroft drunk or something? Usually he was the only Holmes that made any semblance of sanity, now he just seemed to be spouting gibberish poetry.

John was seriously considering Sherlock’s remark about decking him one. “How dramatic.” He replied, turning to the door.

“It runs in the family.”

“Whatever, Alohomora.” He muttered, and to his relief the door opened the first go.

Him? Hurting Sherlock Holmes? What a mother-fucking-load-of-bollocks.


	8. The Plummet and the Paralysed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly dont know how good this is but whatever, exciting things are to come 
> 
> Jesus Christ im so tired.

Mycroft and Greg walked into Hogwarts for their last year, both with shiny new badges pinned to their robes.

Their results from their summer exams had come in, all looking quite well, Mummy and Father pleased all round. To his surprise, Greg’s dad had sent him a letter giving him praise for his good scores.

“Not all O’s like _some_ people. But good enough I’d say.” The Gryffindor had said with a smile as he looked over his scores, offering a playful glare to Mycroft who returned with an eyeroll.

So, when their badges arrived in the post it was the finishing touch. Mycroft was head boy, of course, that didn’t really come as a surprise, his badge the rich Slytherin green with silver writing. Greg was the Gryffindor Quidditch captain, which he was excited about, and Mycroft was proud of. The celebratory sort of dance he did upon receiving it was enough to make everyone present in the kitchen laugh out loud.

“God this feels weird.” Greg spoke, as they walked into the great hall, just before they separated into their houses for the first years to be sorted. Mycroft gave him a look, the quirk of the eyebrow questioning. “Think, Myc, we won’t ever get to watch this again.”

“If you miss it terribly you could always become a teacher.” He restrained a smile when Greg elbowed him.

The sorting passed quicker than it had last year, given the fact that his little brother hadn't taken up ten minutes this time. He, as head boy was required to escort and explain everything to the new first years.

The first day back was always the slowest, Mycroft couldn’t wait for it to be over, so everything kicked back into full swing. He didn’t try to go to the Gryffindor commons, instead choosing to scowl at Anthea every time she texted him even though she was sitting opposite him as he read a book she’d downloaded onto his phone for him.

“I shouldn’t have asked for a phone.” He muttered, and she let out a laugh from across the table.

That’s the way it was for a while, normal. He went through with his classes, took his exams. He, Greg and Anthea (and Irene if she felt like it but Mycroft tried his best to avoid talking to her) sat in a group at meals. And he and Greg still did the extra practice routine, even if Mycroft ended up having to watch for a few minutes before he could get Greg to come down.

Until the day before Halloween. That’s when danger decided to strike.

He was walking to meet Greg, who like usual was doing extra practice, always anxious that he was never good enough. Like usual, they were gonna do the walk to put the quidditch case back in the broom shed, and likely groan about the next test they had.

But that isn’t what happened.

Because there was a body on the ground and a broom lying next to it.

“Oh Christ.” Mycroft dropped the umbrella in his hand, and legged it toward him, dropping to his knees beside him and checking his pulse. Greg’s tanned face was splattered with dirt, his expression peaceful as he lay unconscious, which seemed like the biggest irony.

The pulse was there, steady, and he was breathing.

Mycroft's heart was still in his throat.

“Gregory, can you hear me?” He asked, checking frantically for injuries, his hand swiped over the back of the Gryffindor’s head.

He could have thrown up when it came back red and sticky and he noticed it pooling in the grass, feeling ill as he fixated on it soaking into the dirt as Greg lay there. With shaking hands he tore the fabric of his own shirt, ripping the sleeve off of the body, sliding it off his arm and wrapping it around the seeker's head, in an attempt to slow the bleeding. 

“Gregory, please, _any_ indication.” His tone grew more urgent, as he fumbled for his phone, calling Anthea, now incredibly thankful that she would have her phone in her hand.

“Yeah?” She answered, knowing who it was, she had a ring tone for each contact, his was a song by a rapper she’d told him was called Vanilla Ice.

“Get Madame Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall to the quidditch pitch, it’s urgent.” He tried to keep the stress out of his voice, in an attempt to convince both her and himself, that he wasn’t panicking.  

“On it.”

He dropped his phone to the ground. “Gregory, I swear to god, I will…” He tried to find it in him to make a threat, but he couldn’t think straight, his hand found the other boy’s squeezing it in the hopes of doing anything. “I- I won’t do anything, just let me know you’re okay.”

He stirred after a few more moments that felt like days no matter how irrational that sounded. Greg didn’t open his eyes, instead he chose to squeeze them tighter as tears fell down the side of his face. “Mycroft?” There was a noticeable lag between the two syllables. “I- I can’t feel anything, I-I can’t move. Wh-What happened to me, Myc? I- I can’t- I need to-” He coughed as panicked urgency set into his voice, and his breathing began to speed up. He managed to open his eyes, his gaze fixed on Mycroft who was staring down at their hands, both of his clasped around Greg’s, smearing the appalling red over pale and tan.

“Don’t panic, just listen to me.” Mycroft replied, trying to keep his tone steady, even though Greg’s hand still hadn't tightened around his. “Help is on the way, it’s going to be alright.”

“My hand-“ He choked out, crying properly now. “I-I-It hurt my hand and I let go.”

“What did-“

“Out of the way, Mr. Holmes, this boy needs immediate medical attention.” McGonagall’s voice came piercing behind him, and he moved out of the way, as much as he could, whilst still able to keep Greg’s hand in his.

He refused to let go. He ran with them to the hospital wing, still holding Greg’s hand as he lay in the stretcher. They’d since put him to sleep, but the words _you’ll be alright_ became a mantra to Mycroft as he tried to reassure himself.  

They’d got him settled, made the diagnosis, gave him the remedy he supposedly needed. Throughout it all, Mycroft didn’t let go.

He knew it was illogical, but he felt as if when he let go, Greg would phase away from reach.

“Mr. Holmes you must go back to the commons.” Madame Promfrey ordered, as he sat in one of the uncomfortable chairs beside Greg’s bed in the wing. His fingers were still laced between the Gryffindor’s even though his hand was limp, and every time Mycroft acknowledged that fact it made his stomach twist with anxiety. He just needed Greg to wake up and squeeze his hand back, like he did when Mycroft said or did something nice, or he’d made him laugh.

“No.”

“I beg your pardon?” She seemed taken aback by the bluntness of his reply.

“He’s my only friend, if you think for a second I will leave his side while he’s still in pain, for something as meagre as sleep, you are sorely mistaken.” He didn’t look up at her, his leg was jittering, he was still missing a sleeve off his shirt and all he could do was keep his focus on Greg, in a childlike fear that he’d miss something if he looked away.

She pursed her lips in annoyance, before she gave up on her retort. “He will be alright Mr. Holmes.”

By the time Mycroft even registered what she said, she was gone, and he spoke his reply to nobody other than himself. “… I know. He always is.”

 

**

 

Halloween fell upon Hogwarts like it usually did. With ghastly ghouls and gory decorations, scares and shocks as people walked down the halls.

Trick-or-treating had been banned a long time ago, but pumpkin carving was still allowed, neither Sherlock nor John had decided to carve a pumpkin, because it was library day. Sarah had given John an annoyed huff after she asked him to help her carve one, he said no, obviously. So she glared at Sherlock, then at John, before storming off to the hall.

It wasn’t particularly out of the ordinary, when a scream sounded outside the library, John seemingly thought nothing of it, but Sherlock’s head snapped up directly after it happened. Apparently his squirming was enough to warrant a frown of concern on John’s part.

“People have been screaming all day.” He remarked, the ending of _why are you surprised?_ Was implied but unspoken.

Sherlock nodded, still listening, still hearing nothing. “There wasn’t laughter or insult after it though.”

“Oh.”

“Get your stethoscope.” Sherlock ordered, he knew John usually carried it with him, just because, before getting up and running out of the library, turning the corner of which the scream had sounded, before stopping in his tracks.

There, on the floor, lay Molly Hooper.

John followed shortly after. “Oh fuck.” His voice came from behind, before he ran forward, kneeling beside her, and placing the hearing pieces of the stethoscope in his ears like he had a dozen times before, pressing the bell to her chest. “Heartbeat is steady, slightly quick.” Sherlock watched as he checked her neck, and wrists, and then listened to her breathing. “She’s breathing steady.”

Sherlock seemed to unfreeze after that, clicking into motion, hands working as he spoke, waving through the air like some sort of unseen dance.

“Stupefied then.” Sherlock noted to himself and John as he stood up. He walked toward her and reached for his wand. “Rennervate.” He muttered, with the movement of his wand. The spell succeeded, but it didn’t work. He swallowed, before turning to face John, who looked just as scared as he felt. “This is stronger than it should be. Go to the library and tell somebody to alert Professor Spout and Madame Promfrey.” He asked the Gryffindor, before walking in careful circles around her, trying to work out how it had happened.

Her wrists and neck showed no sign of a struggle, her shoulders were hunched in a way that would imply anxiety, along with her grip on the books she was carrying, held in front of her stomach, pressed against her torso like she was hiding it. Her mouth was frozen in the scream she’d been caught in.

“Anything?” John asked, handing sherlock his bag and his books, shouldering his own, keeping the stethoscope around his neck, like he’d forgotten it was there.

“Line of sight.” Sherlock replied, glancing up at him. “Culprit was taller than her, quite a bit, my height roughly, though I can’t be sure with her laid down.”

“You are not up righting a stupefied body to prove a point.” John’s tone was filled with warning, and Sherlock rolled his eyes at him. “Also, don’t say _your_ height, that’s bound to raise suspicion.”

“So, both the Holmes’ have been involved in a casualty now.” Madame Promfrey spoke idly as they got Molly onto a stretcher to wheel her to the hospital wing.

“What happened to Mycroft?” John asked, and Sherlock managed to hide his gratitude, he hated having to show that he cared about his brother.   

Madame Promfrey looked at him like he was insane. “Mycroft is fine, his boyfriend isn’t.”

“Boyfriend?” John asked, confused, who on earth would date Mycroft? And more importantly, who on earth would Mycroft date?

“Gareth.”

“They aren’t dating, Sherlock.”

“Aren’t they?”

Once Molly was safe in the hospital wing, and Sherlock had stifled a grin at the sight of his brother asleep in a chair by Greg’s hospital bed, they were interrogated by Professor Sprout, as Molly’s head of house, she was generally required to look after the issue. “Do you know what happened to her?” The teacher asked them.  

Sherlock was the one who replied. “She was stupefied, obviously.” John glared at him, the glare that read _you’re a dick_ , so he realised she wanted to know more about their involvement in the ordeal. “We were in the library at the time, I heard the scream. John wrote it off as a practical joke, but there wasn’t anything that followed. Just the scream, then silence. I knew something was wrong after that, so we went to look. All we know is that the person who did it, is somebody she looks up to both metaphorically and literally. Raised shoulders says shyness, line of sight says shorter. The rest she’ll tell you when she wakes.”

“Thank you Mr Holmes, Mr Watson.” She nodded at them.

“I didn’t do anything-“

Sherlock frowned and cut him off. “Liar, he made sure he was stable, though the freezing of her body negated his ability to put her in a recovery position.” He explained to the teacher who was looking at him surprised at the outburst.

“We’ll keep you notified of when she wakes.” She cleared her throat and nodded at them. “You are free to go.”

“Why did you do that?” Sherlock muttered, as they walked in the direction of the Ravenclaw commons. Neither boy was in the mood nor mindset to go back to studying.

“What?” John asked, looking at him quizzically.

“Denying you participated.”

“Because you did all the work.”

“I said what I saw.”

“Yes, but only you could’ve seen that. Anybody can check a pulse.”

Two days later John came into the Ravenclaw common room, Sherlock was sitting at one of the tables, head resting on the table, not asleep but bored and thinking.

Without a word, the Gryffindor yanked him up by the wrist and dragged him out, much to his protests and confusion. This was far out of character for the Gryffindor. No reply was given as the shorter boy dragged Sherlock to the secret passage to the forest.

Only did he let go once they were in the clearing in the trees.

“ _What_ is _wrong_ with you!?” Sherlock yelled, wringing his wrist now John had released his death grip on it.

“Molly woke up today.” John replied simply. If Sherlock had been paying more attention he would’ve noticed the redness around John’s eyes and the way his shoulders were raised, and his jaw was tensed.

Sherlock perked up at that, dropping his wrists to his sides again, not looking up. “Oh? Who was the culprit? I didn’t want to point fingers but she’s been friendly with a few fourth years recently and they would be likely for the strength of the-“

“She said it was you.” John cut him off, he looked upset, annoyed, disappointed, his tone of voice was filled with frustration. “She said you cornered her, and you cast the spell. You did say that it would have been somebody your height.”

“You don’t honestly believe her, do you?”

“No- I- I don’t know.” He sighed out an irritated breath. “I don’t know _how_ you would’ve done it. You were with _me_ when it happened.”

“John I may be good, but I’m not that good.”

“I don’t know if any of it even matters-  Be-Because Dumbledore wants to talk to you and they talked about snapping your wand and suspension and expelling you and I didn’t hear much else and I-“ He was pacing, John, was pacing. His hands found his hair, running through it as his words sped up and his breathing quickened, he sounded on the verge of tears.

“John calm down.” Sherlock replied coolly, cutting him off.  

John glared at him, tears in his eyes, that he rubbed away with shaking hands. “Me calm down? Why am I the only one freaking out?”

“Because I'm not guilty.” Sherlock replied, stopping John from moving by gripping his shoulders, grounding him and hoping to silence the panic he could practically see building in his friend.

John licked his lips and paused for a minute in thought. “I think I believe you.”

 

**

 

John nearly faceplanted into his cereal the next morning.

He hadn't been able to sleep, nightmares kept plaguing every inch of unconsciousness he was able to find. Not his mum this time, which honestly should’ve been a relief. But it wasn’t, because it was Sherlock getting hurt this time.

Three dreams, one for every time he managed to sleep. He wasn’t sure why he’d even decided to try again.

All gruesome, one of them screaming. He’d never even heard Sherlock scream before, so he wasn’t sure how his subconscious could replicate it.

It was believable enough to make him wake up breathless and terrified.

John had gone with him to the meeting with the headmaster, Professor Sprout and Professor Flitwick. Despite his nerves he managed to keep his voice steady and stick up for his friend when needed. In the end no clear resolution was found, except Sherlock being kept in solitary confinement for the night, and until the issue had been resolved.

If John had the guts to talk back to the head master he would’ve made the point that it was similar to caging an animal, but he was sure Dumbledore could find a way to twist his words into sounding reasonable.

Sarah, of course, knew all about what happened, she’d badgered John to tell her the moment he stepped back into the Gryffindor commons. He didn’t particularly think she had any right to know, considering all she’d ever done in regards to Sherlock was give him dirty looks. He told her anyway, because she was his girlfriend and it would be rude to hide it from her. So, when an official looking letter just about missed his bowl, she was just as, if not more, excited than he was.

“What’s it say, Johnny?” She asked him as he read it, her head propped up on her hand as she looked at him quizzically.

John was frowning as he read over it again to make sure he understood it correctly through the haze of exhaustion. “They… They want to keep him in isolation, because he’s not guilty but they don’t have another explanation. I can be his only classmate if I want, but that means that all my classes are gonna be with him and only him.”

“How can’t he be guilty if they don’t have anything else?” Sarah asked, looking at him like he was crazy, she gave him that look a lot, it didn’t really bother him anymore.

“When we were at the meeting they threatened him with veritaserum, he said he’d down the bottle and his answer would be the same.” She rolled his eyes at him and he dropped his gaze from her to the letter. “He isn’t bluffing Sarah, I know he’s innocent.”

“So, what now then?” Her tone was impatient now, like he’d done something to annoy her.

“Until they let him out of isolation, I’m going to keep him company.” John replied like it was obvious, in truth it really should have been. They were allowing John to stay with him because they trusted Sherlock enough that he wouldn’t hurt the Gryffindor, and they trusted John enough that they didn’t think he was involved.

Well, the fact that he was magically inept helped his case as well. Nobody said it, but it was obvious that is what they were thinking.

Sarah looked appalled. “You can’t honestly be saying that you’re going to do it? That’s _all_ your classes, John, even herbology.” Other than quidditch, they were usually together in Herbology, it was the class where she’d asked him out. Besides that he didn’t really associate anything good with the class. Professor Sprout was fairly nice, and he wasn’t particularly awful at it, but he was always put with Sarah for practicals. She was usually quite dictatorial when they were partnered and always nit-picked at the little mistakes he’d make.

Rather than telling her that though, he decided to state the obvious again, quite surprised she was missing all of it. “What other choice do I have? He’s my best friend.”

“He’s a psycho John. You saw what he did to Molly Hooper.” He found that statement ridiculous, she didn’t care a bit about Molly Hooper, so the fact that she was pretending to be emotional about it (Sherlock had told him the differences a while ago) didn’t really help her cause of persuading him. Neither did her calling Sherlock a psychopath.

Sherlock was strange, and absolutely abysmal when it came to socialising. He was tall and awkward, and his sense of humour wasn’t shy of dark. But he wasn’t a psychopath. He did care about things, he had passions and goals and aspirations like anybody else. John knew that, even if nobody else did.

Biting his lip to silence his protests, he took a breath in order to keep his cool. “He was with me in the library, Sarah, how could he have done it?”

“What if he wasn’t with you, what if he got one of his mates, a metamorphagus or something, to sit with you while he went and did it?” John froze at her words, how had they both been so stupid? Surely Sherlock would’ve worked it out the moment the situation arose. Somebody must have changed themselves to look like him, metamorphagus, Polyjuice, it didn’t matter, it was plausible. “John?”

“A metamorphagus… Sarah that’s brilliant!” He pressed a kiss to her cheek before standing up and grabbing his things to run and see his friend.

“Told you he was guilty!” She said, her tone radiating _I told you so_.

John laughed, shaking his head, calling out behind him as he ran out of the hall. “No, that proves his innocence!”


	9. The Broken, the Distressed and the Upset

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kinda like this chapter, shits gonna go down soon 
> 
> enjoy!

Mycroft woke up to tension in his left hand, something against it, warm and tightening every now and then.

Greg was awake.

He squeezed his eyes tight before he opened them, rubbing over his face with his other hand, which had long ago been cleaned of blood. Anthea, when she realised he refused to leave until the Gryffindor woke, brought him a new shirt, one that thankfully had both sleeves.  He made a mental note to get her something as thanks next time he went to Hogsmeade. The muddied and bloodied one had since been discarded, and Greg had been given proper bandages for the head wound, which in the end wasn’t the worst injury he’d suffered.

They wrote it down as paralysis, curable with the right remedy, they injected it into Greg’s arm and Mycroft had to sit and watch as the muscles tensed and relaxed over and over again, all throughout his body as it kicked in. That was the only time he let go of Greg's hand, because the Gryffindor was insistent on making a fist, and Mycroft preferred his hand unbroken. After that, Greg's hand still lay limp in the grasp of the head boy, as did the rest of his body. It was an eerily accurate portrayal of a dead body, and it made Mycroft incredibly uncomfortable. He, of course, knew death was inevitable; he wasn’t an idiot, far from it actually. But the thought of anybody he cared about (Greg, _obviously_ , Anthea, and maybe Sherlock when he wasn’t being an utter prat) dying made him squirm as a sickness threatened to rise in his throat.

The coma was a result of the head injury, well it wasn’t a coma per say. Greg had definitely clicked back into consciousness a few times over the course of the past few days. He just seemed to squint before deciding against waking up properly and going back to sleep, whether it was voluntary or not, was indecipherable.

But he was awake properly now, thumb tracing over the back of Mycroft’s hand in gentle circles.

Mycroft wasn’t sure why he was so surprised, he knew from the beginning in the field that Greg would be fine. Well, that’s what he’d tell the Gryffindor, he wasn’t fully aware that Greg would make a full recovery until Madame Promfrey had reassured him that.

It was nice of her to do so, but he didn’t like the fact that it appeared he doubted Greg with any stretch of his imagination.

Though, he supposed the seeker would never know any of that happened, unless it had happened in the occurrences of which his consciousness had found him.

It had found him now, properly this time.

“Myc?” His voice came soft and broken, he didn’t move, but his eyes were open now, staring at the ceiling, hand still clasped comfortably, firmly in Mycroft’s.

“Yes, Gregory?”

“Uhm… Thanks.” He spoke after a few moments, voice still soft, but more confident in his words now. 

Mycroft allowed himself to smile properly, relieved that Greg was alright, that he’d woken in the first place. “You’re welcome.”

“How long have I been here?” The was definite fear in his voice, his hand and body tensing, shuffling the sheets a little, so Mycroft knew without even looking.

“Almost three days.” He replied, tone gentle, easy.

“You didn’t leave though.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I…” Mycroft paused, hesitant of the answer and even more uncertain of whether it would be wise to tell the Gryffindor. “I’m not quite sure.” He went with, a good lie, believable; people did irrational things when they were upset. He at least wanted Greg to know that the whole ordeal had indeed upset him, though he supposed his very presence told him that.

“Thanks. I think I woke up a couple times, even just a little bit. I was scared, ‘was still numb, but I knew you were there.” Another moment of silence game, Mycroft waited, knowing he had more to say than that. “It helped.”

“I’m glad, this chair is a pain in the ass.” He smiled again as Greg laughed as quietly as he could manage

“You didn’t have to.” The smile in his voice was audible, and Mycroft closed his eyes, relaxing back into the chair, and squeezing Greg’s hand gently.

“You just said it helped, of course I had to.”

Greg gave a hum in response. “When are they gonna let me out?”

“I’d assume once they’re assured you can walk and there aren’t any lasting effects of trauma.”

“Right.” He flopped his head back against the pillow, soon after a pained grunt fell from his lips, and his grip tightened around Mycroft's hand.

“Does your head hurt?” He asked, Promfrey had told him it might happen.

“A little, like a headache.”

Mycroft nodded to nobody other than himself. “You’re possibly dehydrated, there’s water on the table to your left. Do you need help sitting up?”

Greg laughed a little in response to that. “No, I think I can manage.” The was a moment of quiet, as Greg pushed himself up with a huff, he was intent on making it difficult for himself with the use of only one hand, but he managed.

“People brought you presents.” The Slytherin spoke to change the subject to something lighter.

“Christ,” The seeker sighed. “Who?”

“Anthea, Sally, Anderson, John, I think Sherlock brought you something as well, but I think John forced him. I didn’t get you anything because I didn’t leave. Oh, and McGonagall brought you flowers too.” He listed on his fingers, quite quickly but clear enough for Greg to understand.

“She saw us hand-holding again then.”

“Yes, if you view that as misfortune.”

“No,” He squeezed Mycroft's hand to make his point. “But she’s gonna think, maybe gossip.”

“Teacher gossip, to my knowledge, stays between teachers. You needn’t worry.”

“I suppose not, but if Snape starts winking at me every time we’re in potions together, I may begin to.”

The corners of Mycroft's mouth quirked up into a smile. “Snape would be the last person who would, Dumbledore would be far less discreet.”

“Oh Christ, I don’t want to think about that interaction.”

“I’d pay to see it.”

“Wanker.”

“Dickhead.”

“Am I gonna have to relearn how to walk or sommat?”

Mycroft laughed abruptly, covering his mouth to silence the unexpected outburst, before clearing his throat. “You might need a moment or two to adjust, but you don’t need rehabilitation.”

“The snitch.”

“Pardon?”

“The snitch, it happened again, like it did before, and the time before that. My wrist wasn’t just broken it was paralysed again. When I fell and Watson caught me it was because of the shock, it hurt my hand and I didn’t expect it so I let go, of my broom, not the snitch.” Greg explained, tiredness evident in his voice, even though he’d been asleep for what felt like weeks.

“Somebody cursed it.” Mycroft replied as he reached the realisation, to his knowledge snitches weren’t normally supposed to cause injury to the holder.

“Why?”

“Because they want to hurt you.” He stated simply, it should be obvious, especially to Greg, having known that it had happened more than once. He was slightly hurt that Greg hadn't told him about it, because he’d have been able to do something, maybe he could’ve prevented it from escalating this far, but now, he just wanted Greg to be okay, to relax, not to worry. He’d confront him about it another time. “Jealousy, revenge, love, who knows their motive.”

“You’ll figure it out. Until then I’m going to bin that snitch.”

“Set it free like a wild bird.”

They both let out a childish giggle at that, high pitched and care free, every time it died down, one of them burst out again revving up from a snigger into a breathless charade of hilarity. The cycle of giddy laughter seemed to continue forever until slowly it died back down into sleep, and dreams filled with the hope that everything would be alright.

Because it would be alright.

It would be.

 

**

 

Sherlock never really minded being alone. Solitude kept him safe.

He often ignored Mummy and Father as a child, if he were to stay out of their way, there wouldn’t be any hassle. It was the same with Mycroft, the elder Holmes was always busy, reading or practicing and he never had much time for Sherlock.

They used to play pirates, it was Sherlock’s favourite, him and Mycroft battling to the death, it used to be with play-swords, then fencing swords, then wands, duelling in the back garden with what little spells they knew.

Sherlock even got Mycroft the umbrella with the sword in the handle, to try and persuade him but he was too grown up for any of that ( _“Sherlock for heavens sake you’re eleven now, quit it with the pirate nonsense!”_ ). It was a shame Mycroft quit fencing really, he was quite good, however, Sherlock being shorter, slimmer and far more agile, was better.

He wasn’t quite sure what Hogwarts had done to his brother, he didn’t like it much really. Father seemed to dote over the fact that he was Slytherin, Mummy gushed over his good results and shiny Prefect badge.

Even Sherlock’s straight O’s for his summer exams were overshadowed by the glossy green Head Boy pin, sent through the post so Mycroft could outshine him one last time.

There were times he wished he didn’t have a brother at all. Mycroft was too busy to be a good one anyway.

So, if the younger were to ask for much at all, he was usually shooed or shouted at.

His solution was to avoid people in general, and the interaction wouldn’t have any opportunity to take place.

But as he lay on the floor of whatever tower they’d locked him in to keep the precious pupils of the palace safe, he realised he really fucking hated being alone.

He did now at least.

He’d planned to live life at Hogwarts as close to home as he could, alone, head down, working hard. Years filled with sleepless nights, not for cramming but filled with boredom, boredom wandering through his mind palace in the dead of night, rearranging new information, digging up old stuff, running to the bees for some sort of comfort when everything became too much. Too loud. Too overcrowded.

Then John _bloody_ Watson had to show up and ruin everything. Well he didn’t ruin everything, he was actually quite good at keeping Sherlock right, and out of detentions, usually managing to sensor him before he accidentally said something rude or hurtful. It was a trait Sherlock appreciated in him, his heart, considering the Ravenclaw had been told on several occasions that he lacked one of his own (John’s stethoscope said otherwise, the Gryffindor liked to listen to his heartbeat when he thought Sherlock was asleep or in his head somewhere), he didn’t mind those statements much really, he preferred the mind to be his strong suit.

He appreciated that Johns opinion of him had never faltered, not when he was accused, not when he had to protest, not when they locked him in solitude.

He knew Sarah would try and convince him that he was wrong, that Sherlock was guilty.

She wanted John to herself, and she was doing whatever it would take to have it that way. He couldn’t believe John still hadn't seen through her deceit, he thought the glasses would’ve sent some alarm bells ringing. John seemed to be happy with her though, he’d be considerably less so if Sherlock interfered. Sarah annoyed him to no end, always prying into every little crack of John’s life, to the point he was barely one person anymore.

She’d tried once to accompany him on his weekly library meet with Sherlock, after practice. That had been a disaster. She wasn’t dim by any means, quite bright as far as third years go, but nowhere near Sherlock’s level, or Johns memory. In the end Sherlock began to speak French out of annoyance and John had learned to block him out at this point. She had not and left after being ignored because John was actually trying to get work done.

John was more comfortable with Sherlock now, enough that he wore his own glasses when they were at the library together. As Sherlock predicted, they were a thick frame, dark in colour as a nice contrast to the Gryffindor’s fair hair. They looked nice on him.

And there it was again. Always somehow, no matter what, his thought process has cycled back to that frustratingly stupid Gryffindor.

He _missed_ John.

He’d never missed anyone before. Ever. Not even Mycroft (maybe a little but he’d take that secret to the grave). He’d never missed a friend before, never cared about anyone before, never really had anyone _to_ care about.

Is that why it was hitting so hard?

“If I had just stayed alone, maybe this would be more bearable. I have no doubts that somewhere there’s a spell that enables you to watch me but doing this single-handedly is going to drive me insane. We may as well start with the talking to oneself. I wonder if Mycroft, when he hears that I’ve lost my mind, will try and do something.” He spoke aloud, flopping back against the bed they’d been so generous to give him, despite the likelihood of him using it for its intended purpose, being slim. “I miss my skull.” He muttered, placing his hands behind his head.

The ceiling had the same enchantment the ceiling of the great hall did, so he could see the sky outside. He supposed maybe there was some legalities about locking him in a room without a window. Then again, there was also the chance they could manipulate the roof to fuck with his concept of time.

Could they do that? There had to be rules against it.

Rolling his eyes at himself he sighed out again, taking a deep breath in before breathing it out slowly. “Well maybe I don’t have to silence my mind palace anymore. I suppose there are benefits, looking on the bright side and all that.” He laughed at that, to himself. John would’ve laughed at it, his uncommon usage of typical adages.

The night (day? Who knew? Not him) drew on, and he ended up pacing his room, walking circles in the room, or tracing geometric patterns n to the floor with his foot as he stood, trying to think, to keep himself sharp.

He knew he was being ridiculous, he’d get up tomorrow and they’d let him out to get his stuff, and he’d go to classes with John (John would have said yes to having classes with him, it was just the way his moral’s operated). But this was the day they’d usually sneak out to the forest, and John would laugh at his inability to fly, and he’d insult John back until they were in a fit of giggles, but he couldn’t do that anymore. Not now, maybe not ever again.

The room they’d locked him in was in one of the towers, they’d put a lock on it that couldn’t be opened with any spell taught before seventh year, and there was a slat which could be open and shut for sound to get in and out considering the door had a silencing charm. At least it meant nobody could hear him if they walked past. He could scream, and nobody would hear a thing.

His Rubik’s Cube was in his dorm, so was his scarf. They hadn't let him take anything.

He was bored.

He did scream for a little bit, trying to see what pitch and dynamic would affect the walls enough to echo. A sharp rap on the door came, it didn’t make him jump considering he had a brain enough to expect it. “Go to sleep, Mr. Holmes.”

They called Mycroft that too didn’t they?

“Considering you’ve locked me in confinement, I’ll do what I want. There’s nobody to disturb other than myself.” Sherlock replied loud enough for them to hear, they slammed the slat shut before he could finish what he wanted to say, but he finished it anyway. “You can’t touch an innocent man.”

He gave up after that, letting out a pained sigh, sinking down against the door.

“I'm innocent.” He repeated to himself.

He just needed to figure out how it was done, and to prove it, he’d find a way, even if he was trapped in here.

“I’m innocent.” He said again, a whisper this time as he pulled his knees to his chest.

Even if it was just in his head, he could still hear John’s voice ringing reassurance. “ _I think I believe you_.”

 

**

 

John’s nightmares were getting worse.

He didn’t sleep anymore if he could help it.

Class with Sherlock was everything he’d thought it would be, busy, difficult, annoying. Sherlock had two modes of being, either silent or blathering like he’d never stop.

He’d told sherlock his theory about a metamorphagus, Sherlock, despite being rather impressed with Sarah for knowing what a metamorphagus is (John hit him for that) explained that it wouldn’t hold up unless they could prove it.

John was out of his mind worrying about his friend, Sherlock seemed to be partaking in his own silent protest by starving himself, John could see it, the Ravenclaw had always been skinny, but now there was practically nothing. John couldn’t make him do anything, nobody could, so all he could do was stress and fret and try his hardest not to cry.

Sarah was ever-loving, overbearing, insistent on her demands, so he tried his best to fill her headstrong ideals.

It wasn’t until Greg pulled him aside after quidditch practice that he realised something was wrong.

He was glad to have the captain back. He’d gone to visit the older boy a few times in the hospital wing, it was pretty clear to him that he appeared like some snot-nosed kid, tailing after this seventh year. He felt that way sometimes too, but Greg was probably his only friend apart from Sherlock, he always treated John as his equal. His visits gave Mycroft a break to dart back to the commons if he needed or go for a walk, so they were welcomed. But he was just happy to start off practice once again, flying was one of the only things that could clear his head, where he could channel his pent-up energy, anxiety, fear, worry, whatever, into something useful.

This time he couldn’t, not as well at least.

His reflexes were sluggish, his vision was blurring, and his head kept drooping as he struggled to keep it up and pay attention. This time he didn’t get hit in the face, he didn’t panic, he was just worse than usual.

But of course, it was only the captain that noticed.

At the end of practice whilst everybody was leaving to go wash up and enjoy the rest of their Saturday, Greg pushed John down onto a bench, kneeling in front of him, looking at him with a similar look of studying given to him by Sherlock. “Watson, you need to get some sleep. You missed three goals, that’s your most ever in a practice.”

John shook his head, indignant. “No, I’m fine Greg, I'm alright, really.”

“Ballocks. Your eyes look like two piss-holes in the snow, what other explanation is there?” He sat back before a look of realisation came over his face. “Unless it’s because of Sarah, you aren’t going soft, are you Watson? You’re a better player than she is, I _will_ take her off the team if I need to.”

John shook his head quickly. Sarah didn’t deserve that, just because he didn’t want to admit he wasn’t okay, shouldn’t cost her position on the team. “No! Its not her, honest, I just-“ This was Greg. Greg was his friend, as strange as that was, the seventh year had never looked down on him. “I can’t fucking sleep, I can’t shut my head off…”

“Talk to me mate, I wont laugh, honest.” John stared at his hands in his lap, until Greg placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. He glanced up to meet the Seeker’s stare. It wasn’t mean, or intimidating, rather welcoming, kind almost. “John. Its just me and you.” John still didn’t say anything. “Primary school then, we’ll trade. You tell me, and I’ll tell you. Fair?”

John took a breath, huffing it out in a sigh, dropping his head back down to his lap. He wanted to speak, he wanted to tell him, tell him everything, tell him about the nightmares and the panic attacks. Tell him about the words and thoughts that had begun to take over his entire mindset. But the words seem to just catch in his mouth and he could feel that same anxiety building up in his throat, turning his stomach.

Greg was patient. “Take your time.” It wasn’t menacing, it wasn’t sarcastic, it was calm and sincere.

He clenched his fists and took another breath before replying. “It’s Sherlock, it’s always Sherlock. He’s starving himself or something now, and god help me I'm worried about him. A-And its nothing new, I’ve always got nightmares, my mum usually but-“ He coughed, clearing his throat, trying desperately to continue. ”But now they’ve changed…”

“To Sherlock?”

“Y-Yeah.” He breathed, rubbing a hand over his eyes, trying to distract from the heat pooling in his cheeks. He couldn’t understand why this was so difficult. “They’re gonna kill him, keeping him in confinement. That or he’ll kill himself.”

“They won’t, I swear on my life.”

John laughed bitterly, trying his best not to scowl. “How can you?”

“Because I know they know Mycroft would have them in Azkaban if Sherlock so much as scratches himself unsupervised.” Greg laughed, and John managed a watery smile. “It’s alright if you want to take a break from practice.”

“Are you serious? Quidditch is the only thing I can do _right_.”

The seeker nodded, eyebrows furrowed in thought. “Well uhm, if you want, I do extra practice on Thursdays. I’ll drag you down from the commons if I have to.”

John nodded, smiling gently. “Thanks, Greg.”

“Well I suppose I owe you a secret now then.” Greg replied, pausing for a minute to think, before leaning forward. “Alright I got one. Promise you won’t laugh?”

John rolled his eyes, leaning back against the bench, feeling the tension fall from his shoulders. “Well you haven’t told me yet.”

Greg gave him a pointed look. “Oi, I might keep it from you for being a smartarse.”

“I wont laugh.” John replied, resting his hand on his fist with his elbow on his knee, looking at the older boy intently.

“I think, I think I might be gay. Or at least not as straight as everybody thinks.”

John’s eyes widened, before his brow furrowed. “Oh…” His face relaxed. “ _Oh_.”

“Oh?”

“It’s Mycroft isn’t it?”

Greg’s face reddened considerably as he replied, and John couldn’t help but smile. “I said _one_ secret.”

“It’s Mycroft.”

“So, you don’t care?” The seeker asked, and John rolled his eyes, smiling a little bit.

“My sister is a lesbian, I think if I cared I’d be quite the asshole, don’t you?”

Greg looked quite relieved “You look a bit better now.” He noted, nodding at the younger boy.

“I feel a bit better.” John shrugged.

The older boy pushed himself up off the ground, offering a hand to him. “Alright then, off you go, clean yourself up then sleep, you need it mate.”

“Thanks Greg.” John replied, taking Greg’s hand to stand, and heading towards the castle doors.

“John?” The keeper turned to face the older boy. “It’s gonna be alright.”


	10. The Meltdown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all the angst boiiis all the angst 
> 
> there is worse to come
> 
> im not sorry

“Boss, you alright?” Anthea’s voice came from the bottom of the stairs that led to the girl’s dormitories.

It was late night, Mycroft couldn’t sleep. Rather than waste the eight dreadfully long hours tossing and turning in bed, he usually opted to read in the living area of the commons. Whether it be on his phone or a physical copy, the words distracted from everything else. It had been happening a lot lately, in the past few months, too many thoughts thundering around his head like they controlled him, not the other way round. He could only rely on Greg for so much, and whilst he did an excellent job of quieting Mycroft’s head down, he also couldn’t be with him every waking hour of the day.

Mycroft couldn’t ask that of him, for fear of losing him altogether. So, he’d take what he could get and suffer through the nights.

He doubted anyone would notice.

He didn’t expect to get caught, however.

Mycroft set his phone down and turned to look at Anthea, she was bare-faced and her hair was pulled into twin braids which was different. “You changed your hair.” He replied, ignoring her query, and went back to staring blankly at his phone screen. “Different style. It looks… Nice.” His voice withered down into a mutter, as a lump stuck in his throat.

She let out a hum of a laugh, and moved to sit opposite him at the table, lighting a candle with the flick of her wand to fill the room with dim light. He didn’t doubt that he was the only person aside from her family that had seen her without makeup. “Irene did them. Answer my question Mycroft.” She snatched the phone from him, forcing him to engage in some sort of interaction with her. He could’ve smiled at that, had he ever done the same she would’ve broken his hand, he learned early on that nobody touches her Blackberry without permission or at all.

He sat back in his chair, running a hand over his face, in an attempt to waken himself up a bit. “Which would you rather hear? Comforting deceit or worrying truth?”

“What’s wrong?”

“My little brother is in solitary confinement. I think that speaks for itself.”

“Do you want me to get Greg?” She was the only person other than Greg that he trusted, she understood a lot of the emotions he didn’t, quite honestly she was his best asset in regards to his heart.

“Let him sleep, Anthea. Theres no point risking the trouble.”

“There’s every point if you’ll stop worrying.” She quipped back and he let out an exasperated sigh, her persistence could be just as aggravating as potentially helpful.

“I wont ever stop worrying, that’s the turmoil that comes with Sherlock Holmes.”

She frowned, sighing out a huff. “Is there nothing you can do?”

“I could write to father, but Sherlock would have me dead if I told him about what happened.”

“He stupefied Hooper didn’t he?” She asked, and Mycroft rolled his eyes, sick of hearing that phrase. Sherlock did _not_ stupefy Molly Hooper, he had a solid alibi. The staff were just so useless as to not figure out who the real culprit was, instead opting for the easiest option, to confine his little brother.

“That’s what they think.” He corrected her with as much authority in his voice as he could force. “But no matter how exasperating they may be, Sherlock would never hurt anyone, not purposefully. Rennervate didn’t work, I don’t think he could do something that strong. I don’t think it and what happened to Greg are disconnected either.” She gave him a look of inquiry. “It doesn’t make sense that both these things happened at the same time. They hurt Greg, possibly to distract John, leaving Sherlock without an alibi. It didn’t work so they tried something different.”

Anthea gave a soft hum, the buttons of her blackberry clicking in the otherwise silent room, the screen casting a whiter light onto her face than the candle. “Theories then?”

“Whoever it is must be good.”

She laughed. “Thanks captain obvious.”

“Welcome madam mockery.” He quipped back.

“So whats your game plan?”

“My what?”

“Game plan- What are you going to do?” She corrected herself, rolling her eyes at the head boy, supposedly the smartest in their year, yet he still didn’t know the term _game plan_.

“Wait.” Mycroft replied simply. “Try and get Sherlock out, even if its just for a walk. He’ll go mad trapped in there.”

“He has his friend.”

That was a good point, there had been a noticeable difference in Sherlock’s mood and behaviours since he’d began to talk to John. Despite the drastic dip when John began to date Sarah, most of them were good differences. “Watson. Yes, he’s a good associate for Sherlock, a stupid one, but a good one.”

There was a moment of silence, Anthea stopped typing to look at Mycroft, and Mycroft had his hands clasped, staring at the flicker of the candle even when his vision began to blur.

“It isn’t your fault, Mycroft.” Anthea’s voice cut in, drawing him back from his thoughts, and her hand rested atop his clasped together, he blinked and loosened his grip on his own hands, noticing his knuckles burning white.

“I never said it was.” He replied, somewhat coldly, pulling his hands away from hers.

“You thought it loud enough for kings-cross to hear.” She replied with an eyeroll. “You can’t control his every move, no matter how much you try to.”

Mycroft frowned at her. “I don’t try to control him, I just try to keep him away from trouble so incidents like these don’t occur.” She offered him the raise of an eyebrow. She didn’t understand a lot of his methods, though this was the closest she’d ever come to questioning him.

“There are other ways to let him know you care.”

“Not in our family.”

The doors to the commons burst open, Professor Snape with Professor Flitwick in tow, looks of urgency written clear as day on their faces.. “Mr. Holmes, you must come quickly, it’s your brother.”

“Speak of the devil and he shall make a commotion.” He muttered to himself and to Anthea, before pushing himself up and making a dash out of the commons to the tower his brother was in.

Professor Flitwick unlocked the door for him, and he pushed his way into the room, taking in the scene that was playing out before him.

The room was completely dishevelled, even his bed, tipped on its side, pages torn from books and ink splattered on the walls. Sherlock was hunched into himself, back against the wall, his face pressed into his knees, hands stained black and covering his ears.

Mycroft knelt in front of him, worry rising in his throat, gently he pulled Sherlocks hands away from the sides of his head, thumbs resting gently in the Ravenclaw’s palms, smearing ink onto his fingertips. “Sherlock, what’s wrong? Talk to me.” He kept his voice soft, low, forcing every ounce of warmth he could into it. He hadn't spoken to his brother like that in a long time, he could feel his voice cracking as tears threatened to rise in his throat. He didn’t know when or why they’d become like this, but he hated himself for it.

“It- It hurts. I-I can’t- I c-can’t think g-get John.” He choked out, refusing to look up, his arms wrapping around his legs, fingers gripping tight enough that his knuckles turned white.

They’d allowed Mycroft in because he was his brother, he couldn’t be certain that they’d let John in too on the off chance that he’d make things worse instead of better. “Lockie, I don’t know if I-“

“Please, Crofty!” Sherlock cried, looking up finally, his eyes stained red around the edges, the bags under them a striking purple on his pale skin. Tears streaked down his cheeks, glinting silver in the dim candle light.

Mycroft froze, he hadn't heard that nickname in a long time, not since he left for Hogwarts and everything changed. Biting his lip, he breathed out a sigh, he wasn’t about to cry as well, he had to be the strong older brother. He ran a gentle hand through Sherlock’s hair, pushing his fringe from his eyes, and seafoam green met ice blue. Sherlock gripped his hand as it made contact with his face, locking their fingers like he used to, smearing dark black over the elders fingers. “Please.” His voice was barely a whisper now.

 “I’ll try my best, brother mine.”

 

**

 

Sherlock twirled his quill around in idle boredom. He’d finished the work that needed written, and for an unexplained reason, John wasn’t present in class.

The walk through the hall wasn’t the most pleasant. Usually people gave him dirty looks, rumours spread fast and considering the fact that he wasn’t the most likable before the Molly Hooper incident, people took them at face value.

But he also usually had John at his side to glare right back, and distract the taller boy with some incessant rambling about quidditch or what happened the other day at lunch, or how he beat Greg at a game of cards.

John had been fine the day before, so for the life of him he couldn’t figure out why he wasn’t coming to class.

“Hey freak! Don’t have your boyfriend to protect you now, do you?” The distinguishable nasally drawl of Phillip Anderson came from behind him. He didn’t turn round, and continued walking, a stupid miscalculation, he’d insulted Anderson less than a week ago, likening the chances of persistence in his torment. “Nothing clever to say? There’s a change.” An abrupt hand on his shoulder flipped him round so he was facing the seventh year. “Gone deaf now have you?”

Anderson was his height, if a few millimetres taller. He liked to think himself a ladies man. He wasn’t all that attractive, his hair and his gait was ridiculous, and his tone of voice sent unpleasant shivers down the back of Sherlock’s neck.

In Sherlocks first run-in with him, he’d made the deduction that he was cheating on his girlfriend with Sally Donavan. Now he and Donavan were dating, he still managed to find another girl to satisfy himself.

The sloppiness of his dishonesty annoyed Sherlock than the act itself.

“With the amount of questions you ask, it’s a wonder you’re still such a gormless pillock.”

That was another miscalculation, so was the delay in his dodge that allowed Andersons fist to crack against his cheek, an ache spreading down into his jaw. Fortunately, he was still able to find his momentum, slamming the heel of his palm into the celiac plexus, sending the older boy staggering back.

“Its not a wonder they locked you up.” Anderson spat, shoving him hard, he wasn’t ready for it, so he bowled over like a pin, knocking his head against the floor of the corridor, spots appearing in his vision as pain shot through his skull. “Freak.” He spat, kicking Sherlock in the side and the younger boy curled in on himself.

“Anderson!” A familiar voice he couldn’t quite place yelled out from down the hall. The older boy sprinted, even in his haze of pain Sherlock could’ve predicted that.

Then all of a sudden he was being pulled up, by somebody not quite his height, but not John either. “Mate you alright? Where’s John?” It was Lestrade, there wasn’t anybody else aside from his brother (who was still taller) that would help him, he clicked his fingers in front of Sherlocks face, to catch his focus. “Do you need to go see Madame P?”

“I don’t know.” Sherlock managed, blinking as he tried to get his vision to focus.

“Okay definitely, come on mate, just lean on me.” Lestrade replied.

He had to wait in the hospital wing for an insufferable amount of time, he was concussed apparently, which meant he had to stay for an hour at least so they could make sure he didn’t fall asleep. Lestrade had volunteered to wait with him, Sherlock couldn’t really understand why he would, but he wasn’t going to object, Greg was the second least infuriating person in the castle.

Five minutes to the hour, John came rushing in through the doors, eyes quickly trained to Sherlock and even through his haze he recognised guilt and worry in John’s reactions to him.

“What happened? You weren’t in class.” He spoke out of breath, he’d ran then.

“Anderson got in a scrap with him, where were you?” Lestrade answered for the Ravenclaw, who was too out of it to even argue back.

“Bathroom.” John replied. “Are you alright?”

“For a whole two lessons? Try something more believable, or at least less embarrassing.” Sherlock piped up and John glared at him, he glared straight back, it was Johns fault he was here, if the Gryffindor had been with him than Anderson wouldn’t have even glanced their way. John was short but he could be scary. “Yes, I'm fine, if fine counts a concussion.

John winced, rubbing a hand over his eyes, definitely guilt.

Greg looked at him for a moment, before his expression relaxed into knowing. “ _Oh_. I get it.”

“Get what?” John replied, his face tinting pinker than it had been before.

“Nothing, you alright to wait with him for a minute or two? I need to borrow notes off somebody for the class I missed.”

John dropped his look of confusion quite quickly. “Yeah of course, see you at practice.”

“Sarah.” Sherlock spoke once Lestrade had gone. It was becoming clearer to him now, that Sarah had a hand in it, a lover anyway judging by the blush, John wasn’t the type to two-time and to Sherlock’s knowledge they were still together.

“What?” The Gryffindor replied, turning to him

“You were with Sarah weren’t you?”

“No.” John replied quickly, too quickly.  

“Liar.”

John let out an exasperated huff. “Fine, maybe I was. What’s it to you?”

“Why’d you leave then?” He avoided Johns question, he didn’t know why he was so persistent on the matter, he’d figure that out later when he was sifting through his mind palace.

John’s face flushed even redder at that, only this time it wasn’t out of embarrassment, it was discomfort, upset. Sherlock had struck a nerve. “I don’t want to talk about it.” John’s voice was quiet, but stern, he meant it. That tone meant Sherlock shouldn’t dare push it further.

Sarah had done something then, not him. She’d hurt him, he wasn’t sure if it was physical or verbal just yet, maybe she used his mum in some way. Was she really that evil? Maybe not, her style was oblivious manipulation, not outright hurt. Mistake then. Either way, John wasn’t alright about it. Sherlock chose instead to change the subject. “Suit yourself. Class was awfully dull without you. Though my chat with Anderson certainly spiced the day up a bit.”  

“I don’t think I’ll be ditching again anytime soon.” He forced a laugh and looked away, avoiding the taller boy’s eyes.

Sherlock made a mental note to scathingly deduce Sarah the next time he had the displeasure of her company.

 

**

 

John was awake when Mycroft walked into the Gryffindor dormitories, Greg hadn't been able to sleep either, so they were keeping each other company, each with a mug of tea and a hand of cards.

Greg hadn't asked him about his nightmares, and he hadn't questioned why Greg was awake.

It was surprisingly John who had suggested a round of cards, they hadn't played in a while, and he’d learned a new game from Harry and her mates over Christmas break.

 Sherlock had gone home to get away from confinement for a bit, John had told him he should but the Gryffindor was pretty sure Mycroft forced him anyway, though his letters to John made it seem like home was just as big a prison. John knew that not to be true, Sherlock was just one for theatrics, and he told him as such in his letters (the Ravenclaw did not appreciate being called a drama queen).

Harry had been sober for a few months so she invited him to stay, it was nice to have his sister back, her and Clara happy together again. She even got him a knew rugby jersey for Christmas. Of course, she had a few friends round, who seemed to dote over him for a reason he couldn’t find, cheek pinching, hair ruffling, the whole nine yards. They let him play cards though, after beating them at Jack’, they taught him something knew.

It wasn’t long before Greg figured it out and they were neck and neck, fighting the urge to sleep. Then the quiet banter of fruitless competition was interrupted by a ginger Slytherin with a look of panic on his face.

“Myc? Is everything alright? Whats wrong?” Greg asked, standing up quickly and placing his hands on the sides of Mycroft's face, which was paler than usual somehow. The Slytherin pulled his hands away put didn’t let go of them, John just about managed to hide his questioning at the interaction.

“I’m fine Gregory.” He dropped his hands and turned to the younger Gryffindor. “John, you have to come with me.” It wasn’t a request, it was an order and John felt his heart speed up with anxiety.

“What’ve _I_ done?” He asked, trying not to sound to outraged. He couldn’t be put in detention for being awake after curfew, because if so then Greg would be too.

“Not what you’ve done, but what you need to do. Sherlock is having a meltdown, overloaded I think, he requested you.” Overload, John had read about that, he paused for a minute to think about what the best for it would be. “Hurry up!” Mycroft barked, and John glared at him before his expression softened and he worked out what he needed to do.

“Okay just gimme one second. I’ll be right behind you.” He replied, running up the stairs to the sleeping quarters, and rifling through his battered old messenger bag.

By the time he reached the tower, Sherlock was in an awful state, Greg was waiting outside the door, with Professor Flitwick, both looked worried beyond belief and John swallowed nervously as the charms professor unlocked the door.

“He’s in a right state mate, be careful.” Greg warned him, placing a hand on his shoulder and squeezing in a manner of comfort.

When he entered the room, his heart stopped.

The room looked like it had been turned upside-down, and a hurricane had blown through it.

But that wasn’t what caught his attention.

Sherlock was curled up smaller than John would’ve thought possible for a boy his height, knees bent in, folded beneath him. His entire body was shaking, _writhing_ in Mycroft’s embrace, and he was groaning like he was in pain. His arms were wrapped tight around Mycroft’s torso, his forehead resting against the solar plexus as he choked out sobbed breaths. Mycroft simply held him, one hand at his side and the other at the back of his head. The side of his face was pressed against the top of Sherlocks head as though at one point he’d bent to kiss the curls and didn’t move, turning only but to breathe. The scene was quite surreal, considering the most contact he’d ever seen between the Holmes’ brothers was a kick under the table.

Something must really be wrong then.

Mycroft looked up at him, mouth opening to speak but John held up a hand, then brought a finger to his lips, indicating silence. And they called Mycroft the _smart_ one. “Put out the lights.” He mouthed to the older boy who raised an eyebrow. John rolled his eyes. “Just do it!” He raised his voice to a shouted whisper, pointing when Sherlock flinched as a result.

John dropped to the floor by Sherlock, keeping him upright as Mycroft let go, standing up and pulling out his wand, with a simple gesture the candle-light was gone, leaving only the light from the false sky in the ceiling. He left after that, leaving only the two in the room.

John allowed Sherlock’s head to rest against his shoulder, despite the tears now soaking into his pyjama top, he ignored the strange jump in his stomach when the Ravenclaw snaked his arms around his waist, holding firmly.

Sherlock was still crying.

“Sherlock? Listen to me okay? Just take deep breaths, it sounds stupid, but it’ll help, I promise.” John whispered, still holding him, rubbing gentle circles into his back. “Follow mine okay?” He offered. “Sherlock you have to agree to it or I won’t know.”

“O-Okay.” His voice was broken, quiet, weaker than John had ever heard it and he swallowed down the anxiety that threatened to build.

He let out a deep breath, smiling gently as Sherlock copied him, his own breath coming out shaky and finished with a hiccup, but it was better than the hyperventilated cries he’d been making earlier.

Slowly they found a rhythm, and surely Sherlock began to calm down, his crying fading into the occasional sniff. He didn’t let go.

It was a rather odd feeling, considering the younger boy was shirtless under his open dressing gown, but John wasn’t about to move him. It could risk making everything worse.

“I can’t- I-I can’t think. I-It hurts John.” He stammered out a whisper after what felt like a year of silence. He was looking for an answer.

“What hurts?” John asked, still rubbing circles into the small of Sherlock’s back.

“Everything.” There was a pause. “It was all just _too_ much. I-I-I’ve never had that before.”

“It’s called sensory overload, if I’m diagnosing you right. I got it once over the summer.” John replied gently. “I have something that might help if you can sit on your own.” Reluctantly, John removed his arms from around the taller boy, who retracted himself as well, opening his eyes and blinking rapidly before squeezing them tight again with a soft groan.

John pulled his phone out of the pocket of his shorts, a string of earbuds following. His phone lit up against his face and he squinted, turning the brightness down quickly in case Sherlock opened his eyes again.

“This might feel a bit weird, just bear with me.” The Gryffindor spoke softly, and the younger boy gave a small nod, carefully he brushed back Sherlock’s curls with gentle fingers, using his other hand he put one earbud in. “Tell me if anything gets too much.” He added, repeating the same action for the other side, he felt like each sentence should be followed with a pet-name, _love,_ or _pet,_ or _sweetheart_ like his teachers used to do back in primary school. Though he figured Sherlock wouldn’t appreciate it.

He had classical music downloaded ever since Sherlock played his violin for him when he visited over summer. It helped calm him down when he felt like he was going to pass out from stress or nerves, he wasn’t sure if it was because of what it was or if it was due to who it reminded him of. He’d prefer to say the former.

He hit play on his phone and slid it into Sherlock’s dressing gown pocket. It was almost fascinating to watch as Sherlock visibly relaxed, his eyes were still closed, and over time his breathing began to slow down.

All too quickly his body fell forward into John’s with a strange amount of elegance John didn’t understand how he had given the circumstances. The Gryffindor managed to manoeuvre Sherlock’s lanky frame, without getting tangled in the lead of his headphones, so his head was in John’s lap, and John’s back was against the wall. If he fell asleep then he wouldn’t fall forward or back, and if Sherlock woke he’d be easily found.

He had one of Sherlock’s hands in his own, for a reason he hadn't figured out yet.

Just to keep track of his pulse, yeah, that worked.

That was the reason.


	11. The Two Mistakes and One Success

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ash might stab me for this but I think it's worth it. 
> 
> hope you enjoy.

There was a noticeable change in Greg’s behaviour toward the end of the year. Mycroft didn’t notice at first but once he did he could stop picking in his head at every little thing Greg was doing that wasn’t normal.

He knew something was up, he knew there was something that Greg wasn’t telling him, and he wasn’t hurt or upset about it. Greg was allowed to have secrets, he was allowed to live his own life without sharing every little detail with him.  He wasn’t upset, he was _anxious_ , because he knew that whatever it was related to him in some way. Greg had become more jittery around him, less fluid and relaxed, Mycroft's presence no longer calmed him down, or made him happy.

He didn’t know what he had done.

He still watched all the quidditch matches but stayed out of view so he didn’t put Greg off when he was playing.

Anthea had no answers, and the hurt in his chest and the breath catching in his throat every time Greg purposely avoided him increased in their power over him.

When their exams began he disregarded everyone and everything. He’d done this in his first three years at Hogwarts, shutting everyone out so his only focus was on study.

The day before last, where the leavers would celebrate and the teachers would pretend not to notice the younger students that sneaked their way into the celebration, nor the elders drinking fire-whiskey, Greg cornered him in the library.

There’d been a buzzing feeling throughout the school, as if the entire castle were vibrating with excitement about the nights activities, it was always like this, and Mycroft had never understood it. He’d ruled it out before as him simply not being the age of which it was relevant. But this leavers party was for him, he was _leaving_.

It hadn't quite set in yet that he’d be going home and possibly never coming back (unless Sherlock did something immensely awful. Considering the route he was currently taking that didn’t seem completely implausible). Father had set him up with an internship at the ministry, if he played his cards right, in a years’ time he could be permanent and four positions up.

He supposed he should be excited.

But he just… _Wasn’t._

Greg sat down at the usual table Mycroft sat at, he was out of breath and tenser than usual, clearly he’d been looking for him. That usually meant something was quite seriously exciting or quite seriously wrong. “Can I talk to you? Outside?” He asked once the slythein looked up at him quizzically, and Mycroft didn’t need another word of persuasion to shut his book and follow the Gryffindor out toward the empty quidditch pitches.

Mycroft stood with his hands behind his back, posture impeccable as usual, trying to hide how tensed he was, terrified to know what this was, what was going on, dreading the answer he would be given.

“I have something to tell you.” Greg said after  a moment of silence that Mycroft presumed he was using to collect himself.

“Well that was clearly evident.” He responded, adding a drip of sarcasm into his tone just to see the attempt at a hidden smile on Greg’s face.  

“No, I mean… I mean I’ve been keeping something from you.” Greg replied, biting his lip and eyeing Mycroft nervously for his reaction.

Mycroft nodded a slight sigh falling from his lips. “I noticed.”

“Of course you did.” Greg rolled his eyes, shifting his weight from foot-to-foot. “You figure it out?” He asked in earnest, almost like he wished Mycroft had.

“Tried to ignore it, mostly. Didn’t like paying attention to the fact you were ignoring me.” Greg winced noticing the pain Mycroft tried his best to keep out of his tone, to no avail.

“I'm sorry about that. Well this makes my job considerably harder.” He offered a sheepish smile, to which Mycroft replied a gentle smirk, pleased to know that they were on good terms again.

“I have time.”

“Look- I just- This is harder than it has any right to be.” Greg laughed running a nervous hand through his still black hair. “I-I-…” He broke the word into a sigh, avoiding Mycroft's eyes as his cheeks flared red. “I like you.”

Mycroft blinked a few times, confused at what he was hearing, unsure whether to read into it or take it at face-value, his mind had gone unusually blank and reading Greg became impossible. He opted for the safer option, not wanting to make a tit out of himself. “Well mutual likeness is the main component of a friendship.”

Greg laughed, well breathed out a giggle would be a more accurate description, it was filled with nerves. “I mean like more than a friend.”

Mycroft furrowed his brow, why were things now becoming difficult for him, to his knowledge he hadn't ingested any poison or drug that could slow him down, things weren’t visualising how they normally would and his heart rate had elevated considerably. He could feel the heat rising to his cheeks with no explanation. “I'm not following, you already pronounced me your best friend.”

Greg sighed at him and he immediately felt his heart plummet. “Why are you making this difficult? I mean like- I want- When we go to hogsmede I don’t want it to be- I want it to be a date, not just us hanging out as mates. I mean it like I want you to be my boyfriend.” Greg explained, looking at the ground and interlocking his own fingers.

White noise. “Oh.”

“I know you probably don’t even like blokes, I didn’t before you, I just… I'm sorry, I didn’t mean it to be like this.” The Gryffindor seemed genuinely guilty, like he thought his own feelings were a crime and Mycroft came back into focus enough to reply.

“Don’t apologise. Its… Its fine. I just need a moment.” Mycroft replied, twisting his fingers as he held his hands behind his back, trying to focus on that feeling enough to keep him from blacking out. “Will you excuse me? I will give you a response, I promise.”

Confusion and embarrassment flashed across Greg’s features before a forced smile followed them. “Okay…” He replied, and Mycroft felt him watching him as he walked away briskly.

He knew exactly who to go to.

Everyone stared at him oddly when he burst into the Slytherin common rooms.

“ _Has anybody seen Anthea!?”_ He cried out the moment he entered. “Pardon, Merlin, I am so sorry.”

“She’s decorating the hall with Adler.” A fourth year with an accent replied, glancing up at him like he was crazy, before rolling his eyes and going back to his book.

Mycroft didn’t even reply but simply sprinted from the commons toward the hall.

“Mycroft whats wrong?” Anthea asked, dropping what she was holding as he slammed open the door with such a back it startled her. There were others in the room than her and Irene but Mycroft didn’t care, his heart was racing and his entire body was shaking as his head spun with thoughts.

“Well if it isn’t the Ice man.” Irene spoke with a smugness Mycroft didn’t understand as he approached them, her rouge lips forming a smirk as he caught his breath.

Anthea looked at him concerned, he was breathing quickly and heavily, and his face was paler than usual if that was possible. “Boss, you aright? You don’t look too great…”

Irene raised an eyebrow at her. “Boss hm? You could’ve told me that’s what you liked, Annie.” Anthea glared at her for the nickname and for the comment.

“Shut it Adler, I need to talk to her.” Mycroft managed to reply, glaring at her with more ferocity than Anthea.

“ _Alone_.” Anthea added before Irene could speak. “You do not want to anger the Head Boy, he knows more about you than you’d think.”

With an annoyed huff she flounced off, swishing her hips as she went.

“What did he say?” Anthea asked once the other girl had gone from earshot.

Mycroft squeezed his eyes shut for a moment trying to quiet down his thoughts. “Who?” He replied opening them again,

“Greg, you idiot.” Anthea replied, if she wasn’t levitating a disco ball she probably would have face-palmed.

“He said- He said that he likes me. He wants me to be his boyfriend.” He spoke, still quite unable to establish the words in his own mind, but Anthea didn’t look surprised, more happy than anything else.

“And what did you say?” She asked, glancing over at him.

“That I needed a moment.”

“Oh you stupid git! Now he thinks you don’t like him!” Anthea replied, dropping her wand, placing her hands on her head and closing her eyes before taking a breath. “What happened? Why didn’t you answer him? I know you better than anyone, you have an answer in a millisecond, why didn’t you this time?”

The Slytherin swallowed, he knew he couldn’t lie to her, there wouldn’t be any point. She couldn’t help him if she didn’t know exactly what happened. “I couldn’t.”

“Elaborate?” Her face merged into confusion.

“I couldn’t think, I couldn’t read him, I-I can’t read you, I couldn’t breathe.” He wasn’t speaking from a logical place anymore, he could feel the anxiety rising in his throat, he was scared and he had no idea why.

“Heartbeat?”

“Faster.”

“Say yes.” She ordered simply. Not even looking at him as she stood up onto one of the tables to push up a decorated lantern to hover amongst the candles .

“Why?”

“Your heart beat faster because you were nervous, you like him back, you have for ages. You just never listened to me.” She dropped off the table and took his hands in hers, forcing him to look her in the eye. “Say yes or so help me Mycroft I will kill you before Sherlock gets the chance.”

“I'm trusting you.” Mycroft replied, letting go of her hands, and allowing her to hug him.

She laughed pulling away after the brief embrace. “Get over yourself, I know your heart better than you do. Go get ‘em Boss. Just promise me one thing?”

“What?”

“Don’t make out with him the whole way home.” She offered him a wink and a grin before ushering him out of the hall.

Breaths calm and shoulders relaxed, he walked back into the Slytherin commons, grabbing one of his umbrellas before heading out, ignoring the looks he was given by everyone who had seen his outburst before.

He knew exactly where and why Greg would be, it was fitting for what was about to happen.

The Gryffindor landed the moment he noticed Mycroft watching him, touching down and stepping off the broom, running his gloved hands through his hair. “Myc, I'm so sorry I just couldn’t hide it anymore and I get it if you-“

“Yes.” He cut Greg off before he could finish, the Gryffindor paused and looked up at him, eyes widened in disbelief and apprehension.

“What?”

“Yes. I’ll be your boyfriend.”

“You aren’t joking?”

“Am I ever?”

Greg breathed out a breath, smiling gently, glancing up at Mycroft. “I'm going to do something now, and I need you to tell me if its not okay.”

“Sometime this week and we might find out.”

Greg rolled his eyes, dropped his broom and grabbed Mycroft by the lapels, pulling him down and pressing their lips together. Mycroft had expected it, but the feeling of it was a shock enough for him to drop his umbrella. His hand found the side of Greg’s face and the other his lower back, pulling him in closer deepening the kiss and inviting more ferocity into it. Greg led, and for once Mycroft followed, allowing himself to be directed. It was warm, comforting, Mycroft's heart was racing, this time he understood it and the feeling in the pit of his stomach was enjoyable.

Greg pulled away with flushed cheeked and lips red, a grin came over his face and he started to giggle. “God you have no idea how awful it’s been. I'm so stupid. If I knew it would be that nice I would’ve asked you sooner.”

“I should’ve worked it out. I'm glad I didn’t.” Greg offered him a look of question. “I think I needed you to ask to jumpstart everything. I had to ask Anthea to know what was happening.”

“I meant it when I said you were gorgeous, I thought I went too far then. That you’d know, the kiss on the cheek was probably walking on thin ice.”

“You’re the only one who’s ever told me anything like that. I didn’t realise it wasn’t considered platonic.”  

“Well we’ll have to fix that. But for now, do you wanna spend the leavers do with me?”

“As opposed to whom?” Mycroft smirked with a raised eyebrow.

Greg rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. “You git, c’mere.”

Mycroft found his lips against Greg’s once again.

He could get used to this.

 

**

 

It was the last day of school. Sherlock hadn't slept since they’d let him out for the night of celebration which was kind of them, he supposed.

After an almost gross amount of kissing that Sherlock tried his best to ignore, John parted with Sarah and stole him from the festivities, the dirty looks he’d been getting and the looks of remorse and guilt from Molly, to the clearing in the forest, for one last flying lesson before the summer had commenced.

They didn’t do much flying, more giggling and chatting and moaning about the bores of school life and Sarah. Too much chatter about Sarah. Sherlock almost always managed to change the subject after the sickness in his stomach began to rise.

There was laughter and sarcasm and insults, Sherlock making John blush effortlessly and John trying to hide it vigorously and failing.

It was almost like everything was normal.

John was too wrapped up in his own joy that he didn’t notice when Sherlock’s untucked shirt rode up and his ribs were almost painfully visible.

He _did_ notice the next day, when he came to tell Sherlock to pack, the train would be leaving in a few hours and Flitwick had instructed him to tell the younger boy,

The younger boy was laid on his bed, eyes closed, and hands clasped together across his stomach, his shirt was open mostly for comfort, barely hanging onto his shoulders, his entire chest and midriff exposed to where his trousers were belted at his waist.

John walked in without warning and froze. “Sherlock the train is go- Oh shit, Sherlock!” He cried out, rushing over to the younger boy’s side, checking his pulse at his neck and listening to his breathing before letting out a sigh of relief.

“I'm not dead.” Sherlock replied, once John had removed himself from a close proximity, keeping his eyes shut

“You look dead.” He deadpanned. Sherlock thought that was a bit dramatic on John’s part, he was pale and skinny, in no way was he dead, unless bewitched, dead bodies didn’t normally move. “What the hell are you playing at?” John seemed upset and Sherlock frowned, he hadn't expected that reaction. “Are you trying to kill yourself? What the hell is this?”

“A protest.” The Ravenclaw replied simply, opening his eyes and looking up at John with a frown, he didn’t understand why this didn’t make sense to him. If they put him in enough harm’s way they had to get him out, and him putting himself in harm’s way as a result of their punishment was their fault. So, if he got it to escalate enough then maybe he had a chance.

He wasn’t guilty and everybody knew it.

John huffed out a breath of annoyance, giving sherlock a pointed glare. “A protest? It’s a death wish Sherlock. You’re wasting away.”

“I'm fine.” His response was indignant.

“No, you aren’t.”

“You’re not a doctor.”

“No but I'm not an idiot.”

Sherlock needed to change the topic, he needed to distract John before he told anyone. The best way he could think of was to anger him. When John got angry, _really_ angry, his entire essence was anger, no other thoughts. It was a good trait and a bad one. Sherlock hated himself for taking advantage of it. Which was a knew feeling. “ _Well._ ” He shrugged and gave John a look.

“Well what?” The Gryffindor replied his frown deepening from one of concern and frustration to plain annoyance and hurt.

“ _I_ wouldn’t trust the judgement of a man who can’t brew a Polyjuice potion on his own. There are first years who can do that.” Sherlock replied, changing his tone entirely, each word filled him with regret but he shoved it back into the box it belonged it and focused at the task at hand.

“I'm getting better.” It was working, the offense began to trickle into Johns tone of voice.

“And why would that be?” Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes and gesturing to himself. “A man can only stare at an idiot for so long before it gets boring.”

“You never _had_ to tutor me. _You_ offered.” John replied, and Sherlock ignored the tears forming in Johns eyes, choosing to direct his gaze to the ceiling before his own began to well.

“And now I'm bored.” He spoke airily but swallowed thickly.

“Bored with what?”

“You.”

“I thought…” John cleared his throat; his voice was beginning to break. “You- You’re my best friend…”

“I don’t have friends.” Sherlock replied, his voice almost becoming a his as he scowled at John, the word _friends_ came off his tongue like it tasted bad. “Really John you can’t expect to have entertained me for much longer, give yourself _some_ credit, two years is a long time to have been interesting, I quite enjoyed studying your mistakes.”

“I was an experiment!?” John asked, outraged, his voice rose in dynamic, fists clenched.

 _“_ What else _would_ you be _?”_ Sherlock replied, sitting up and matching John’s vocal level.

 _"You really are a freak!"_ The words fell from his lips and as Sherlock registered them John's own eyes went wide along with his, but Sherlock blinded by his own fury at the statement didn't notice, and braced himself for the incoming barrage of insults just raring to force themselves out of his mouth. He closed his eyes trying to keep the lock shut around his emotions. He wouldn't cry. He didn't care. He'd heard it all before and hearing it from John _did not hurt more_. He’d done this to himself, he expected every word. "Everyone was right, Sarah, Sally, Molly. I should've quit when I was ahead. And you know what, you _were_ right."

Sherlock glared at him, knowing he be too slightless from his own rage that he wouldn’t see the tears in Sherlock’s eyes. " _I_ was right?"

"You don't have friends. Because you don't have me." All John’s anger seemed to melt away into upset and frustration. His shoulders dropped but his fists were still tightly closed. "Train leaves in an hour, make sure you're ready." His voice was toneless, the words were empty and all the colour seemed to have drained from the room. Johns eyes were empty, Sherlock’s eyes were intense and the other dropped his gaze, sniffing and turning on his heel.

John left with the slam of the door. Sherlock flinched.

Yet again he’d underestimated just how much these things could hurt.

He’d really cocked this one up, hadn't he?

 

**

 

John placed his head in his hands, trying not to cry alone in a compartment on the train. He had his earphones in, listening to one of his favourite violin pieces. That probably wasn’t helping his cause in preventing the tears.

What had he done?

He wasn’t even sure that _he_ knew, no doubt that Sherlock knew exactly what was going on.

He couldn’t make any sense of it, one minute he was worried sick about the younger boy and the next he was filled with so much anger that he ran his mouth further than he even thought he _could_.

A knock on the glass door of the compartment caught him off guard, he pulled his hands from his eyes and turned to see Mike Stamford, taking an earbud out he greeted his friend with a half-hearted smile, taking his earbuds out, slightly grateful for somebody to talk to.

“You alright? Strange to see you and Sarah not together, I at least thought you’d’ve been with Sherlock.” He replied, and his cheery disposition was enough to dampen John’s mood even more. “Problems? I thought she seemed a bit miffed.”

“Not with Sarah.” He offered, being vague, not necessarily out of intention, more because he didn’t want to face the problem, he felt awful enough when he was the only one who knew what he’d said.  

Mike looked surprised. “Sherlock?”

John nodded with a sigh. “I really ballocksed it up, Mike.”

“What did you do.” John didn’t offer him any sign of reply, he didn’t think that talking about it would do any more than spread a nasty rumour. The first about him and another one to add for Sherlock. “Oh, come on John, you can’t tell a guy something like that and then not explain _what_ you did.”

He appreciated the other boy’s attempt to lighten the mood, it was better than being miserable on his own for the whole journey.  

“We got in a row. I said something really nasty to him, _me_ , his only proper friend and I insulted him. I called him a freak, Mike. I'm just as bad as Anderson.” His voice broke, and he rubbed a hand over his face in an attempt to hide the distress, but he knew he wasn’t fooling anybody, least of all himself.

“I wouldn’t say _that_. At least you feel bad for it.” Mike replied. “Anderson physically hurts him, and hes never been sorry for any of it. Why do you think Greg had Ragamuffin take him off the team?”

“I didn’t mean any of it. He’s my best friend, Mike. I was just upset.”

“Then apologise.” The Hufflepuff replied simply. “Just tell him you didn’t mean it. Its not rocket science. He’s a human lie detector isn’t he? He’ll know if you’re sincere.”

John’s shoulders dropped, how had he forgotten something so simple. People made apologies all the time but he doubted that anybody had ever properly apologised to Sherlock. “That’s a really good idea. Thank you so much.”

“No bother, mate. Just trying to help.”

A full on panic set into his bones once he stepped off the train, trunk in fist, he didn’t have the first clue of where to look but after standing in the middle of the platform glancing around him and the ruckus of the crowd blending into nothing, he noticed a pop of strawberry blonde and an umbrella and sprinted after it, ducking and dodging people walking in all directions.

“Mycroft!” He yelled after him, and eventually he was heard, the taller boy turning around, eyebrow raised, and he paused where he stood long enough for John to catch up. “Mycroft!” John repeated breathlessly. “Have you seen Sherlock- I need to talk to him!”

Mycroft's face twisted into confusion. “He wasn’t with you?”

John dropped eye contact and shook his head. “No, we had a fight and I need to apologise. Do you know where he is?”

“If he’s not with you then it’s likely he’s with our parents. We usually meet them at the third pillar away from the portal.” Mycroft replied, eyeing John cautiously and frowning slightly more than he had been.

John followed him as he twisted through the crowd, having to run in places to keep up with the taller boy, damn his short legs.

Sherlock’s parents smiled when they saw John and Mycroft.

“Mother, Father, is Sherlock with you?” Mycroft asked, and their smiles quickly faded and John’s heart began to beat in his throat.

“He’s not with you?” Lydia asked, her features scarily like Mycroft's as she looked between them confused.

“No, John and I were looking for him.”

“Well where else could he be?” Conrad replied, John noticed his fist clench in his trouser pocket, and swallowed hoarsely.

John decided to save Mycroft any potential beratement. “He talks to you, me and…”

“Gregory possibly. Call me if he comes to you, we’re going to try and find him.”

John sighed in frustration and turned on his heel to follow Mycroft, casting a wave back to Sherlock’s parents before turning quickly so he wouldn’t lose the Head Boy in their wild goose chase.

“Gregory!” Mycroft called as they approached, Greg was just finished talking to a group of girls and turning to go through the portal wall. Within a heartbeat Greg turned round to face the two. “Gregory, have you seen Sherlock?” He asked, out of breath as the Gryffindor stared at them like they were aliens.

“No? Was I meant to? I thought he was with-“

John sighed. “Me- yes, so did everybody else, but he isn’t.”

“Merlin’s beard.” Mycroft spoke quietly, his face had gone pale and he looked more anxious now than he had before. “If he isn’t with any of us, there is a slight chance he wasn’t on the train at all.”

John’s stomach dropped as he came to a realisation even Mycroft hadn't made yet. “Nobody went back to check on him. Oh god- I slammed the door and it locked I never thought- they didn’t say I was the one letting him out.” He spoke rapidly trying desperately to justify himself, both to the other boys and his own inner judgement.

“Well then we have to go back for him. The train hasn’t left yet, neither have the teachers. Flitwick is bound to be on there somewhere, he’s Sherlock’s head of house, right?” Mycroft looked at Greg like he could kiss him, and the trio made their way back onto the train, rushing through the strangely empty corridors of the carriages to the engine, if they could get to the engineer maybe they could get him to go back.

“Gregory, go find Professor Flitwick, John and I will explain the situation to the engineer.” Mycroft ordered, John knew very well his calm exterior was a front for all the worry he was trying to conceal.

No matter how much he acted otherwise, John had seen just how much he cared for his little brother.

“Conductor?” Mycroft asked, pushing open the door to the engine room.

“’Ello gentlemen.” The engineer was a stout but built man about John’s height if not shorter, he had dark hair mussed under a flat-cap. “What’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. We made sure to get the ghosts off the train this year I promise.” He offered them a gleeful chuckle and John forced a smile.

“We need you to take us back to the castle.” Mycroft told him simply.

“You what?” The engineer looked flabbergasted at the mere statement. “What for?”

“My brother is still in the castle. If there was any other way we would use it but since the barrier was re-established, there isn’t.” John simply stared as a strange adult authority took over Mycroft's voice, almost like he was just as much the boss of the engineer as his actual boss was.

The engineer looked stunned but still sceptical. “Boys if this is some sort of joke-“

“Conductor I assure you it isn’t, the boys are truthful in what they’re saying. You must take them back.” The nasally voice of Professor Flitwick came from behind them, and John gave Greg a grateful glance. “I hope your parents are informed, you may not arrive home until tomorrow morning.”

“They will be. Sherlock needs us, we’re the only people he trusts, and it may take all three of us to get him to leave.” John replied.

“Very well then.” The professor replied, nodding to the three boys before walking back to the teachers carriage.

“You boys best get comfortable.” The engineer warned them with a cheerful smile.

Greg nodded, giving the engineer a smile. “Sorry to inconvenience you sir.”

The conductor laughed at that, and Mycroft raised his eyebrows, looking as confused as John felt. “I only get to work a few times a year, the more the merrier.” He explained, giving them a wink before ushering them off as he started to work again.

The trio seated themselves in one of the glass compartments, shoving their trunks under their seats as they tried to make themselves a bit more comfortable.

A miserable atmosphere set over the group as the thoughts of what hell Sherlock could’ve begun to raise swirled around in each of their heads.

“I best call my dad.” Greg spoke after a moment of waiting. The hustle and bustle of students outside on the platform had reminded him of where he was supposed to be. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and tapped the number, holding to his ear and directing his gaze back to the window. “Hi Dad.” A smile drew onto his face as his father replied before he frowned a little, he was ignoring the fact that both John and Mycroft were staring at him, listening to no avail. “No I’m not- I know, I’m sorry but it’s an emergency- I’m going back to the castle with Myc and John- I know we had plans but the pubs will still be open tomorrow- Yes you can still meet him, he’s just as excited as you- Right, thanks Dad, love you too, bye.” He let out a breath as he hung up.

Mycroft glanced over to him. “Upset, was he?”

“About what?” John asked.

“He wanted me to come to the pub with him, so he could buy me my first pint, now I'm eighteen, my birthday happened at school remember?”

“Oh right. Christ Greg I'm so sorry.”

“The pubs’ll still be there tomorrow.” Greg repeated, giving John a look that shut him up and warned him not to be guilty about it. He still couldn’t help but feel that it was his fault. “Unless Sherlock explodes them all in rage.” He joked and the three of them shared a smile, even if it vanished quickly. The idea was plausible, not that any of them would ever share that thought.

“John, are you not gonna call your parents?” The elder Gryffindor asked, looking back to the window, as the train began to move. Mycroft had since put his head in his hands, resting his elbows on his knees.

“My dad would probably be more angry if I did. I get a cab home anyway, its not like he’s waiting for something.” He was vague on purpose, hoping that Mycroft wouldn’t read too much into it.

Greg nodded. “Oh.”

Mycroft removed his face from his hands. “Well I suppose I should get it over with. He is not going to be happy about this.” The grave look on his face told John something more than that he was worried about himself. A feeling in his gut told him that Sherlock would somehow be involved.

The Slytherin grabbed his phone from his messenger bag, still holding it like it was alien, his forefinger on the hand that wasn’t holding it did most of the work on the screen. His held it to his ear like a normal person, which was a relief. “Hello father, yes theres been an altercation- Sherlock’s been left at the castle so we’re going back for him- You know his usual behaviour, yes there is a need for all of us to be going, John especially- You best go home, there is a chance we mayn’t be home before tomorrow…” He winced visibly and pulled his phone away slightly as Mr Holmes yelled loud enough for Greg and John to hear the muffled noise of his voice. “Yes- Yes I know, goodbye.”

Their conversation was much colder than Greg’s had been with his own father. John was just glad he wasn’t stupid enough to call his father in the same compartment as them. He probably wouldn’t call him if they were in the same building, knowing how his dad could get.

Greg ended up falling asleep on Mycroft’s shoulder, the Slytherin ended up reading on his phone, unmoving so to not disturb the other boy. John lounged back, able to put his legs up on the seat as he had the full side to himself, he was trying to catch some sleep, but he couldn’t.

He’s had trouble sleeping ever since the nightmare’s had gotten worse, a subconscious fear making it’s way into his conscious and preventing the very idea of sleep itself.

Sherlock knew about it but never pushed, it was unlike him, but John appreciated it. He couldn’t stand the thought of Sherlock knowing that John dreamed about him in any situation.

He could practically feel his nerves crawling through his blood, sickness dragged in his every thought and each was worse than the last.

This was all his fault.

If he had’ve stayed with Sherlock then the door wouldn’t have locked itself, because he wouldn’t have slammed it.

If he could’ve just kept his cool.

“John if you’re going to keep thinking such stupid things I may have to send you out of the compartment. It’s nobody’s fault but poor organisation, they didn’t prepare for such an interaction, which is their fault, not yours. They should know by now how infuriating my little brother can be.” Mycroft spoke and John kept his eyes shut, afraid that if he opened them he may begin to cry.

What if Sherlock had another meltdown when they were gone. When nobody was there to help him?

It was all his fault.

He had done this.


	12. The Return, the Make and the Break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait. school has me dead. 
> 
> never pick GCSE art.

Mycroft didn’t get to see much of Sherlock when they finally got to the castle, Professor Flitwick unlocked the door, and it was agreed that John was their safest bet when it came to calming him down, if he even needed it. That and the Gryffindor was adamant that he needed to apologise immediately. So, the younger boy disappeared into the tower chamber, and the two elders opted to wait outside.

The professor trusted Mycroft enough as head boy to leave him in charge whilst he went to discuss the issue with the headmaster.

It was quiet, too quiet, the silencing charm on the room was driving Mycroft insane, even a yell or a scream would be enough for him to relax, any indicator that his brother was alright. He was anxious. Greg was anxious and it was only adding to his own worry.

After enough staring at the door, Mycroft sunk to the floor and placed his head in his hands. Even though he knew there wasn’t anything he could have done it still swirled in his mind that he _should have_ seen this coming. His little brother was a tyrant at the best of times it was only a matter of time before John got fed up. Considering his relationship with Sarah was _inescapably_ close, he already had somebody to fall back on.

John didn’t need Sherlock. But Mycroft knew, probably more than Sherlock did, just _how much_ Sherlock needed John.

His frown faded when he felt Greg sit down beside him, leaning against him gently. A soft warmth spread throughout him body when the other boy drew his hands from his face, and laced their fingers, a gesture he’d found to be quite comforting. He sighed out hard, squeezing his eyes shut tight, somewhat forcing his shoulders to relax.

“It’s going to be okay, Myc.” Greg spoke gently, Mycroft didn’t look at him instead choosing to stare at the stone floor.

“You say that like it isn’t.” He replied with more bite to his words than he’d intended, drawing his knees up closer in spite of himself.  

Greg laughed and Mycroft scowled at the floor, the Gryffindor squeezed the other boy’s hand a little, the warmth of his calloused hand, stark against Mycroft's cold fingertips. “You’re practically in the foetal position, I know when things are wrong.”

The Slytherin leaned into the other boy, grimacing at his own giveaways. He had to explain his feelings, Greg would be annoyed if he didn’t at least give an inkling of his thought process. He was grateful now to have the comfort of touch but Greg’s hand in his wasn’t helping the sickness in his stomach. “He’s my little brother, how could I be so stupid? He can’t keep a friend around for more than a day, I should’ve been more careful.”

“John wouldn’t ditch him after one little argument.” Greg replied, he knew John, John was loyal, and it didn’t seem like him to get annoyed very easily. Stressed? Yeah, John could stress for the entire castle if you needed him to. But he never really got angry. He always pushed to get the best out of everything, quidditch, classwork, even his relationship with Sarah took work, but he still got the best he could out of it.

“I don’t think it was a little argument.”

He couldn’t see it, but Mycroft knew there was an eyeroll. “He’s in there to take _care_ of Sherlock, I doubt he’d be doing that if he was still annoyed.”

“Yes but Sherlock mayn’t be so forgiving.” Mycroft replied, clear disdain written in his tone, it wasn’t like him to get so worked up over a matter regarding his brother.

Greg squeezed his hand, and shortly after began to rub gentle strokes over Mycroft’s thumb. “That’s fair.”

“He’s still in confinement.” The Slytherin spoke after a moment of silence. “I don’t think they’ll let him out next year.” He twisted to look at Greg properly, and the Gryffindor’s calm expression dropped the moment he saw the pure stress and frustration in Mycroft's face.

“Isn’t there anything you can do?”

“I don’t know…” He paused and bit his lip before continuing. “I'm afraid, Gregory.”

“Mycroft Holmes? Afraid?”

The Slytherin shot down his attempt to lighten the mood, his glare icy enough to freeze a man to the core, but it thawed slightly as Greg stared right back at him. “I'm serious, Greg.”

He nodded, with a small frown. “Alright, alright, I'm sorry. Why’s this got you so worked up?”

“He’s my little brother, I’ve been trying his whole life to take care of him, our Father won’t be happy about his behaviour, he won’t be happy about this slip up. Things could get very bad in a hurry.”

Greg frowned, Mycroft's words sounded quite foreboding, like things were a lot more serious than he was letting on. “You can always come stay with me? You’ll have to learn your way around Muggle society anyway.”

“I appreciate the gesture. But I have to be there for him.”

“If you think that’s best, I won’t stop you.” Greg felt daring and pressed a kiss to Mycroft's temple, the Slytherin didn’t object, but he didn’t push it any further.

“Thank you.” He muttered softly after a few moments of silence.

“No problem, sweetheart.”

He ignored how his face began to heat up, saved by the door opening and the two teenagers emerging. Sherlock trunk in hand, John with the same frustrated expression on his face, the confused expression that Mycroft imagined mirrored his thoughts most of the time.

“How’re you feeling, Sherlock?” Greg had dropped his hand the moment the door opened, now standing up. Guilt struck him again as the question hadn't even crossed his mind, he just opted for the knowledge that he’d be able to tell immediately. Now it seemed as though Greg cared more than he did.

“I'm doing adequately, thank you.”

“I'm sorry about this whole thing, it wasn’t my intention.” Mycroft spoke up, fumbling to find something, _anything_ to say to his little brother.

A sly smirk crossed Sherlock’s mouth, as he gave a pale green stare to the elder. “Do yourself a favour and stop talking.” John elbowed him and Mycroft smiled inwardly.

“Good to know prison hasn’t changed you.”

 

**

 

John visited for the summer, just like he had done the year before. Sherlock was glad to have him, considering things at home had been going just as well as he’d expected, Mycroft had moved out, he was living in London, with a job at the ministry curtesy of their father. He visited a lot, mostly to check up on his greenhouse and to have dinner considering he was useless at cooking himself.

Having John around was going to be good, considering he’s spent majority of the year in confinement, being stuck with just his parents all summer would probably be just as bad if not worse.

The same types of bruises Sherlock had noticed last year were on John’s arms, when he asked about it he got the same reply as last year.

“Rugby, you know how it is. Actually, you probably don’t, the thing is…”

John brought him a birthday present again, this time it was a similar thing to the Rubik’s cube he’d been given the year before, except there were more sections, and it looked a lot more difficult.

They didn’t talk that much, aside from John’s explanation of what rugby was. In Sherlock’s opinion it sounded ridiculous, who in their right mind would willingly stand to be tackled and piled upon?

That was until they went to bed.

Sherlock lay in his bed, hands clasped over his stomach, still wearing his dressing gown and his slippers, he wasn’t really planning to sleep. He’d probably go out to the treehouse and watch the stars as he worked at the new cube John had given him. He didn’t really care much about the stars, or space in general, but staring up at them seemed to allow him to focus.

His door opening was expected, what was said, however, was quite different to what he’d anticipated.

“Sherlock? You awake?” John asked quietly, Sherlock opened his eyes; he could just about see John’s figure in the dark.

“No.” He replied, and he could practically hear John’s eyeroll from the doorway.

John cleared his throat. “Do you mind if I stay here for a bit?” He asked, uncertainty in his tone and sherlock smirked. Nightmare then.

“Was the dream about me again?” He asked, his voice a monotone drawl, he didn’t feel like putting any emotion into his tone of voice.

There was a pause before John replied. “… Yeah.”

“If it will help reassure you that I haven’t been torn apart by a hippogriff, then sure.” He moved over slightly so there was pace on his bed, it was quite nice considering he rarely used it. “Feel free to lie down.” He added.

John approached quietly, with only the slight shuffling of the sheets as he laid down beside the taller boy, his weight dipping the mattress slightly and edging Sherlock slightly closer to him.

“Sherlock?” The shorter boy spoke after a moment of quiet, save for their breathing and the soft rustling of the trees outside with the summer nights breeze.

Sherlock didn’t move, didn’t turn, just continued to stare at his ceiling. “What, John?”

“I’m sorry.” John replied simply.

Sherlock furrowed his brow, that didn’t make sense, nothing had happened that day to warrant an apology. Was he saying sorry for not really talking? That was ridiculous, yet so very John, for some reason that explanation didn’t sit right with him so he disregarded the assumption and opted to ask. “What for?”

“What I said, on- on the last day, I’m sorry.” John replied a slight stutter to his voice, he was nervous.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. It was also very _John_ to get hung up on things like that. “You’ve already apologised and I’ve already forgiven you, I didn’t think there was anything else to discuss.”

“We were both in a state, and I didn’t get to say everything I needed to.” John replied, his voice was growing quieter.

“Very well then, go ahead.”

John cleared his throat first. “I didn’t mean it, any of it, you aren’t a freak, and I'm sorry I ever said that you weren’t my friend.” Sherlock thought it would stop there but apparently John had more to say. “You aren’t normal, I’ll give you that, but you’re extraordinary, you’re clever and-  and you’re brilliant, and you’re my best mate. I was insecure and I was angry, I thought if I insulted you I would feel less bad about the things you said. I really am sorry, Sherlock.”

Sherlock breathed out a breath, nerves settling in his own body as he realised what he’d said when John came back hadn't been the greatest of apologies either. “I suppose I owe you a better apology as well.”

“No, you- you don’t. I know that- I- Its fine.” John stammered, finally catching his thoughts.  

“No, its not.” Sherlock replied sternly. “The fact that you believe those things about yourself is not fine. I hit you exactly where I knew it would hurt and that was not fine either. Just because I can deduce those things doesn’t always mean I should. You are the wisest and the kindest and the bravest person I know. Your loyalty and your friendship is something I never should have risked losing. Like you said, we’re best friends. I'm sorry.” He glanced over to his friend, who was clearer now he was closer.

John nodded. “It’s alright.”

There was silence, and then a soft shuffle of John’s hand on the bedsheets, he’d moved it off his chest and onto the bed. Like it was a game, Sherlock did the same. John retorted with his move, and moved his hand closer. Sherlock followed the same action. This progressed until finally John laced his fingers in Sherlock’s, the game was over, and the sullen silence set in once again.

“John?” Sherlock spoke up, realising that if now was the time for apologies he may as well go the whole nine yards.

“What, Sherlock?”

“I'm sorry for kissing you.”

“It’s fine. It’s all fine.”

 

**

 

John was exhausted by the time he reached his front door. Apparently the taxi price from kings-cross to his house had gone up since September, so the cab driver could only take him part of the way with the money he’d nicked from his dad the year prior.

It was later than he’d usually be home, having to make the journey from Hogwarts, to Hogwarts and back again, and he was banking on the fact that his dad would be out at the pub and he could sneak in and pretend he came in earlier when his dad asked him about it the next day.

His mind was slightly more at ease, having waved Sherlock off as he got in their family’s care and drove off to the country where he lived.

He dropped his trunk on the doorstep with an exaggerated sigh, as he fumbled with his keys to open the door. There weren’t very many things on his keys, a house key to his dad’s, a key to Harry’s, a keychain he’d gotten on a holiday to France and a multitool.

His hands were shaking more than he’d realised when he went to put the key into the lock, twisting it slowly to keep sound to a minimum until a click was heard, he reached for the handle to push it down and it didn’t move.

He’d just locked it.

“Shit.” He whispered, pulling his key out, and grabbing his trunk, he could hear footsteps from inside the house quickly approaching, and he willed his legs to move but they wouldn’t, he couldn’t breathe and he could hear his heart hammering in his head, by the time his body caught up to his brain to run, the door was pulled open and he was caught.

“Get in here!” The slurred voice of his father echoed throughout the empty street and a hand was in his hair, and another gripping his arm tightly, pulling him toward the door and he staggered along to alleviate the pain inflicted.

He didn’t look much like his father, a dark haired man with a thick mustache and a beer gut underneath a stained dress shirt. He got majority of his features from his mother, including his height.

“You thought you could- could jus’ hide away from me, eh?” He shoved John back against the wall of the hallway. “Thought you could leave me forever an’ then just _show up,_ huh!?” He had his arms planted on either side of John’s head, locking him in.

There was no escape.

He couldn’t breathe.

“No- I’ve been at school- I-“

The impact of the slap echoed before the stinging emerged, before he could react there was a punch to his head and the room started spinning as the back of his skull slammed against the wall behind him, a hit to the stomach doubled him over, one hand clutching his stomach and the other on his head, he was crying now but there was no stopping it. Another dig to the stomach had him collapsed.

“What’d they teach you!? Abracadabra!? Alacazam!?“ John braced himself for impact, this was usually where things got bad. “Pathetic, you’re a good for nothin’ freak!” A kick to the stomach. “Worthless-“ Another, he curled his arms around himself, hugging his own torso. “Mistake!”

Putting his arm there was a bad idea.

Striking pain shot up his arm, all the way to his fingertips and he screamed.

His father deemed that enough, and walked away to the kitchen, leaving his son shaking in the corridor, quivering with tears streaming down his face as he struggled to calm his breathing.

Managing to gather himself, he pushed himself up with his good arm, well, his better arm, no part of his body was good right now. He couldn’t stay here, he couldn’t breathe knowing his father could come at any time and do more damage.

Once he got to his bedroom, he did the usual pokes and prods, twists and turns and finger waggling to work out why the hell it was hurting.

He really couldn’t stay here.

His phone was almost dead, but he didn’t care, he needed to get out of there.

“’Ello?” The voice of his sister was comforting on the other line. John was so grateful she was sober in this period of her life, he had no idea what he would have done if he didn’t have her now.

There had been times where she’d been in a phase of alcoholism and their dad had beaten him black and blue, all he could do was cry himself to sleep and hope to god that this was all just a bad dream.

He wished for that a lot, that he’d wake up and he’d be nine years old and his mum would be alive and well, his sister would still be in the honeymoon phase with Clara, and his dad had never laid a hand on him with ill intent.

He swallowed thickly before replying. “Harry? Harry I need you to come pick me up.”

“Whats happened John?” She asked, immediate worry setting into her voice.

“Dad- I came home later than normal and he got angry, I think he’s sprained my arm and I can’t fix it here, I need you to come get me.” His words came out quick and hushed, he hoped to god that Harry could hear him and his dad couldn’t.

“Right, I’ll be right over, and we’ll go to A&E and you can stay at mine.” She replied firmly.

“No!” John cried out before biting his lip and wincing at how loud it was.

“What?” She replied, confused and worried.

John ran a nervous hand through his hair. “We can’t, I’ve been too many times, they’ll lock him up and I- I can’t-“

“Can’t what?”

“He’s all we have, Harry, we have each other and we have dad. I'm _not_ putting him away.”

The was a long and heavy sigh from the other end before she responded. “Fine.”

“Meet me at the green, I’ll try to sneak out.”

“Got it. Love you, Johnny.”

John took a breath. “Love you too.”

He managed to form his school scarf into a makeshift sling before slipping down the stairs to the bathroom, locking the door behind him, and opening the window. He’d had to sneak out a dozen times before, but never with injuries as bad as this. He pushed his trunk out first, and then his back pack, before standing on the cistern and using his working arm as leverage.

He managed to restrain the cry of pain when he landed a little too much to his left.

Once he had everything in hand, he sprinted. He didn’t care who or what saw him, he couldn’t take the risk of his dad catching up to him again, hurting him more. With the temper he was in, who knew what more he would do.

He sat on the kerb by the green. They used to play rugby and football on that grass, childhood friends that had drifted apart since he’d moved to Hogwarts. They’d told everyone he got a sports scholarship to a boarding school. He’d been fairly good at rugby in primary school, captain of the team, popular with the girls. He got a lot of attention, he was good at his subjects, he was breezing through it all.

Then he went to Hogwarts and drowned.

He had no friends, he was failing every class, he was nothing. The only thing he had was quidditch, it was all he was good at, all he enjoyed, even his team gave him some sense of company, even if the most he got from them was a clap on the back for saving a goal.

Then he met Sherlock.

The beep of a car cut john from his thoughts and he looked up to see his sister in her battered old Mini, he smiled at her, despite the tears in his eyes from the ache of his arm, it was genuine. He dropped his trunk and his backpack at his feet, and turned to face her. She was staring at him with a frown on her face.

“Oh, Johnny what has he done to you?” She sighed, gripping the steering wheel and leaning back in her chair, with her eyes squeezed shut. She had her dark hair pulled back into a bun, it frizzed out at the sides of her head in little wisps. She wore circle glasses and a grey cardigan over an obvious pyjama top.

She definitely had more of their dad’s features but they both had their mother’s nose and her eyes.  

“Nothing I can’t fix.” He replied, with a nod, even though she wasn’t looking at him.

She gave him a look and rolled her eyes. “What’re we gonna tell Clara?”

“Nothing,” John replied simply. “Just say you felt uneasy with me at dad’s.”

“She’s gonna notice your arm.” Harry said pointedly.

“I can heal it.” He insisted, sticking his tongue out at her.

“If you say so.” Harry replied with a laugh, John missed that. “How was school?”

“Pretty good, I think my exams went well.”

She raised a brow at him. “How the hell do they examine you? Make you turn a cat into a hat?”

He gave her a cheeky grin. “That was last year.”


	13. The John Dilemma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sad boy hours my dudes. im in an art-block and im ready to throw myself off a bridge. 
> 
> totally didn't let that effect this writing whattt nooooooooo
> 
> This chapter is very john centric because I find him far easier to write. but next chapter should have a bit more equality of the four characters in it. it's also gonna be a wild ride so buckle in

The moment he and Greg walked into his house for dinner with the family and John, Mycroft knew something was off.

John wasn’t holding his fork the way he used to, he rarely moved his left hand, unlike before where he talked animatedly and gestured with his fork. He seemed to be more timid, and any time Mycroft's father spoke even a tad louder than normal there was a definite flinch in his posture.

Greg didn’t notice it, obviously. Sherlock, to his surprise wasn’t reacting like anything was off. Either sherlock was more stupid than Mycroft originally thought, or John was a better actor than the elder was giving him credit for.

Needless to say, when the table cleared itself and Greg was involved in a chat with his father about quidditch, john and Mycroft slipped up to the library.

Slipped off might have been a bit of romanticising, it was rather Mycroft glaring at John and mouthing Library, before walking out of the room like nothing had happened.

“Why must it always be this? You and me, in a locked room, to discuss something I probably don’t want to?” John asked once the door was locked and they were trapped, a sense of de ja vu rushing through the room, as john did his best to keep his expression neutral and his body language minimal.

Mycroft raised his eyebrow. “Who said that _I_ wanted to?”

John sighed, rolling his eyes. “What are we talking about, then? Surely, it can’t be your brother, I haven’t done anything to him since the fight, and I made up for that fair and square.”

Mycroft furrowed his brow, muttering. “Fair and squa- Never mind. We aren’t here to talk about Sherlock. I’m worried about your health John, you might have eased the pain, but that wrist isn’t fully healed, the magic is tormenting it more. Which begs the question; why didn’t you go to a hospital?”

“You know the answer, why ask the question?”

“Because I want to know what type of conversation we’re having. Are you going to lie to me?”

“What kind of idiot do you take me for?”

“Was he drunk?”

“Obviously.”

“How did it happen.”

“Painful to recall, I tend to shut those events out.”

“I understand.”

John laughed half-heartedly. “No, you don’t. He got me on the ground, between him and a wall, to protect my vital organs I tried to block him out with my arm. Big mistake, clearly.” He replied, gesturing with his wrist and wincing as a small stab of pain shot through it.

“You must believe me when I say I am concerned.”

The younger boy rolled his eyes. “Why?”

“That’s not important.” Mycroft replied, before swiftly moving on before any more of John’s insolent questioning could continue. “How long will it be before he does something noticeable, something you cant hide? Before he breaks more than an arm or a leg, or before the injury doesn’t _just_ scar your body? I mean you no ill intent John, believe me; I know how hard it must be going home.”

John laughed again, bitter filled and he cast a jaded glare to the older boy. Mycroft could tell he was getting sick of this, he was slowly shuffling toward the door with each sentence said, and his posture gave him away completely. “No, you don’t. You have no bloody _clue_ what its like! Don’t you dare try to analyse me. You don’t know where I came from, you don’t know _what_ I came from, you don’t know what I went through to get here. So, don’t act like you have all this figured out because you don’t have the slightest idea.” He spat, each word filled with enough venom to poison Mycroft ten times over.

The elder rolled his eyes. “Don’t be dramatic, John.”

“Pot, kettle, any colour you like. Unlock the door.” John ordered, the authority in his voice was startling, he’d clearly improved since their last encounter. Mycroft supposed he would make a fine army captain then, since that was where he was inevitably headed.

“Not until you see reason John, I’m only trying to help you.” Mycroft knew there was no reasoning, bargaining maybe, but he still had to try his options, he had many ways of knocking the air clean out of the younger boy if he needed to.

“ _Now_ , Mycroft.” With a proper posture that could have been genuinely threatening to the elder, Mycroft guessed that Sherlock had taught him well.

“Don’t you at least want me to fix it?” Mycroft wasn’t a healer by any means but he was a good wizard, John was an amateur healer at best.

John saw straight through the distraction, Sherlock had taught him _very_ well then. “I don’t need your help.”

“John its either this, or a teacher noticing, and I'm sure you’d rather avoid the questioning of why you tried to hide it, especially from my brother.”

Reluctantly, John turned around, and offered his wrist to Mycroft, who gently took it in his hand, pulling his wand out of his waistcoats inside pocket. “This doesn’t mean I’m obeying you.” John spoke indignantly, watching Mycroft's careful movements as he muttered the incantation, and the cold then warmth spread throughout his arm, tingling his fingers, all the way to his collar bone.

“You should tell somebody.” Mycroft said gently. He was worried, he’d expressed such worry to Greg and then Greg got worried. 

John didn’t realise that he was important.

Maybe Mycroft didn’t care like Greg did. Greg had a genuine friendship with John, almost brotherly in nature. Mycroft wasn’t John’s friend, he was barely an acquaintance, but his little brother’s business, his boyfriend’s business, was also his, and John had been a vital part in helping Sherlock flourish at Hogwarts, he had been an important and well-loved member of Greg’s team, whether he knew it or not.

John was vital. John was important. John was _needed_.

Sherlock needed him. Greg would be depressed without him. Therefore, Mycroft had to keep him alive and well. He couldn’t say it outright, but the moment _those_ words left his mouth he knew he’d been wrong to say them.

“No.” John replied curtly, snatching his hand back, now healed correctly. “See, I told you, you have _no_ idea.” The door was unlocked when he tried the handle and he walked immediately to Sherlock’s room.

Mycroft sighed and walked to his own room on the other side of the house, Greg was laid on his bed, reading. The sight of Greg in his glasses made him smile and he flopped himself on the bed next to the other, pressing a kiss to the hair returned to grey.

“He didn’t listen to you did he?” Greg spoke, a soft smile on his face as he leaned into Mycroft’s warmth. 

Mycroft sighed staring into his bedroom ceiling. “No, he did not.”

“I told you so.” The smirk on Greg’s face, despite attractive, wasn’t welcome.

Another sigh, accompanied by an eyeroll. “Yes, you did.”

“He’s stubborn, that’s why hes a good keeper, but for negotiation you’re at a dead end.” Greg spoke in a quiet murmur, turning the page of his book, his head was now resting on Mycroft’s chest. The Slytherin could tell this was bothering Greg just as much as him.

Mycroft nodded rubbing his eyes, frustrated with the whole situation. “He’s very loyal very quick, even to those who hurt him.”

Greg gave a laugh at that. “He’s mates with Sherlock. Ain’t that a dead giveaway?”

“Humorous, Gregory.”

“I try my best.” There was a moment of silence and Mycroft noticed something stirring in Greg’s head, he always tended to furrow his brow when he was thinking. "Do you want me to try? No offense love, but he’s my best mate and…”

“He dislikes me very strongly.” Mycroft finished for him, he knew his boyfriend hated to say any bad word about him, no matter how much he thought it.

“Yeah…”

“Well you are the only person who doesn’t.”

“Anthea.”

“One of the only people then.”

Greg turned his head, pressing a gentle kiss to Mycroft’s lips. “Better.”

 

**

 

“Hey! You have a record player!” John called out to Sherlock. They were in the treehouse, Sherlock, Mycroft and their father had made it years ago in Conrad’s attempt to make his son’s more amenable to the outdoors. Sherlock decided that it was the best place to go when his parents went to bed and they wanted to talk.

Sherlock pushed himself off the floor, walking over to inspect the machine just as John was. He was never really one to involve himself with muggle technology. He wanted to, yes, but he was scared of it, just a little (not that he’d ever admit it). So since his father had brought it home from work and set it up, he hadn't really bothered with it. Nor did he know how it worked. “Yes, is that of significance?”

“Obviously.” John replied, forcing his voice down to mimick him, crying out in laughter when Sherlock dug him in the ribs. “We have one, though I mostly use it now.”

“Well put one on, then.” Sherlock replied nonchalantly, flopping back into the spinny-chair they kept for the desk, rolling back away from it as John giggled a little at him, and turned to flick through the vinyl’s they had stacked up on the desk.

A small gasp left his lips and Sherlock tried to look and see what he was looking at, but to no avail, John was at an angle that he couldn’t see.

A moment later some soft music began to play from the speakers, male voices, in a rhythm and style Sherlock had never heard before but something about it was fun.

John didn’t seem to think so, as not even thirty seconds later he had taken the needle off with a shaky hand, and had returned it to grip the desk alongside the other.

“John?” He was shaking now, quiet sobs falling from his lips, Sherlock pushed himself up and rushed over quickly. Sherlock took John by the shoulders, his grip firm yet not aggressive, he turned the other boy to face him. Tears were streaking down the Gryffindor’s face “John what is it?”

“I- I-“ He choked on his own sob. “I- I can’t-“

Sherlock had never seen John go from zero to one hundred like this before, usually it built up over time, but this was immediate. “John please, just breathe, look at me, and breathe.” He removed his hands from John’s shoulders and took his hands instead, lowering down and tugging John to follow suit. “In and out, slow down.”

He’d gotten a lot better at calming John down, just as John had done with him.

John just needed to slow down, take a break, and as much as he hated to, he needed to talk.

Sherlock felt a sense of pride that he had this, that he could calm John down and nobody else could. When John panicked he didn’t go to Sarah or Greg or Mike, he went to Sherlock.

John was breathing a bit more steadily, his shaking had calmed down, his head was in Sherlocks chest, facing the floor.

“What happened?”

“It’s been years, I-“ He took a shaky breath. “I thought I would be fine. Of course, I'm not.” He sniffed, laughing a little, removing himself from Sherlock, and pulling his knees to his chest.

Sherlock watched him, he was staring at the floor, it was strange to see him like this, it hadn't happened so severely for a while. His head hurt from it all. “Your mother, did she like this type of music?”

“Not just her, my dad too. It’s stupid, I'm sorry.” John’s face tinted red as the embarrassment of the breakdown hit him.

“Don’t be, tell me about it, why does it upset you?”

“Erm… Back before- Before mum died, we used to spend time together on a Sunday, all of us. We’d watch telly or play boardgames, but almost always we’d listen to music. Mum and Dad loved The Beach Boys, me and Harry came to as well, so we had all their albums on vinyl. She’d get us up to dance with her, even though none of us could, it never really mattered.”

“It reminds you of her.”

“Not just her, you might not understand what I mean.”

“If you don’t explain then of course I won’t.”

“ _Everything_ changed when she died. It wasn’t just that she left, Dad lost the plot, Harry moved out, I went to Hogwarts. I miss her loads, but I miss how it all used to be. I miss my dad and my sister, because they’ve changed so much they might as well be completely different people. I’d give anything to see them like that again, to see my mum smile, to watch her drag him up to dance again. Anything, Sherlock.” He was crying, not as hard as before, but his voice was breaking, and his entire body was tense with nerves as he relived it all.

The entire world froze.

Sherlock watched. His head hurt.

And suddenly this was more than just a person crying, Sherlock had been able to watch any tom, dick or harry cry and not feel a thing. This was his best friend crying, this was John.

He had to do something.

“Dance with me.”

John’s head snapped up, eyes wide, blue, filled with surprise and tears streaming. “What?” He asked, not in anger like the minority of Sherlock’s mind predicted, but in surprise.

Against his will, Sherlock’s face went pink in embarrassment. “I know it won’t fix anything, but you like that music, why should it always be sad?”

“I don’t know, I don’t dance.”

“I do, come on I’ll teach you. It’ll be practice for the yule ball, Sarah will thank me.”

John paused for a moment, thinking. Sherlock doubted that using Sarah as leverage would be affective, John had negated speaking about her since he arrived, which Sherlock found curious but he threw that notion away in his persuasion. “Fine, but keep it a secret.” John replied finally, rolling his eyes a little but pushing himself up and rubbing his eyes.

“You’re my only friend, who would I tell?”

“I still don’t know about this Sherlock.”

“I’ve seen you cry, and you’ve seen me, embarrassment is a construct and by now should be long gone.”

Reluctantly John dropped the needle, and the music began to play, Sherlock smiled gently, and took hold of John’s hand, setting his shoulders and straightening his posture. John placed his other hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Oh, are you being the woman?” Sherlock asked, raising a brow, and John, despite the tears welling in his eyes, laughed.

“I mean were you planning to?” John asked, letting out a quiet giggle at the notion, Sherlock smirked with an eyeroll.

“Duh, if you’ll be dancing with Sarah you’ll need to know how to lead.”

“I thought this was all for fun?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, placing his own hand on John’s shoulder. “It is. Put your hand on my back, just below my shoulder. Now we’re gonna do a box so back, left, forward, right.” He wasn’t ordering, put instructing as they went, and a soft smile of triumph came onto John’s face as they completed the step. “Now repeat, and make it fluid, there you go.” Sherlock laughed, smiling proud as they kept going to the rhythm, a waltz step probably wasn’t the best for the music, but it was the easiest.

“This is ridiculous.” John laughed, still crying but he was smiling a bit more now. “Manic even.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Try to tell me that isn’t exactly what we are.”

“You got me there. How come you know how to dance?”

“Parents thought it was a requirement for a gentleman. Like making a princess practice balance, they got me dance lessons.”

“And seemingly negated manners.”

“Git.”

That broke them both, they stopped moving. All it took was Sherlock to let out a snigger and they were both gone. Sherlock was giggling doubled over slightly like he did when something really got to him, John had his face buried in Sherlock’s shoulder shaking with laughter.

Suddenly he forgot that he’d been upset in the first place.

 

**

 

John was with Greg, they were in a pub on Diagon Alley, Greg offered to go with John to get his school books, considering Sherlock had all of Mycroft's old hand-me-downs and had no need to go. Sherlock being Sherlock, didn’t object and John left his phone for Sherlock to mess about with.

They’d got the books and John managed to stare at the newest broom model for a good five minutes before Greg dragged him away to do something productive.

They talked about quidditch and how work was going for Greg and what John was planning to do further in school. Greg gave advice and eventually they got talking about Rugby. It was good to talk about something other than magic with somebody because he was a muggleborn with an aloof family.

Other than Greg, his connection to his muggle side was gone.

“So, you and Mycroft, how’s that going?” John asked, he hadn't seen them act any different when they were visiting Mycroft’s family. To his knowledge they lived together in London, while Mycroft was working in the ministry and Greg was working in his police training.

Greg gave a hum in response, a soft smile and the hint of a blush tinting his cheeks. “Pretty well actually, he’s a lot better than you’d think when you get to know him.” He replied. John wanted to roll his eyes and reply with _yeah right_. But his friend was a good judge of character, and he seemed happier when he was with Mycroft than when he was pining.

Instead John nodded, offeing  SMOLE“And what does Sherlock think of it? He’s made no comment to me.”

“He doesn’t know.” Greg replied and John laughed, before realising that Greg wasn’t laughing with him.

“Sherlock knows everything.” He replied adamantly.

“That’s a stretch and you know it.” Greg replied unamused and John rolled his eyes.

“Well a bit, but really?” His expression went from sarcastic to disbelieving, he honestly couldn’t believe Sherlock hadn't realised yet.

“Nope.” Greg replied with a smug look on his face and John rolled his eyes, taking a sip of his butterbeer. “What about you and Sarah?”

John choked and spluttered at that. He had barely thought about Sarah for the past two weeks he’d been at Sherlock’s, and truthfully, when he had thought about her, he wasn’t really thinking positively. “I- I uhm… I don’t know.”

“What do you mean?”

“I haven’t talked to her since I came to stay with Sherlock, and- I guess-“ John sighed, giving his friend a stern look. “Promise you won’t say to anyone?”

Greg set down his drink, leaning in closer, realising this was a bit more serious. “Swear on my heart.” He replied and the younger boy let out a sigh, he hadn't really thought about it much but it seemed more obvious to him now.

“I think I'm gonna break up with her.” He said, still a bit uneasy at the idea, unsure of the repercussions.

“At the start of school?” Greg asked, and John winced at the shock in his voice.

“Is that too harsh? I mean we don’t even have much in common, and she- I guess she’s controlling? When I'm with her she hates it when I go hang out with Sherlock in his tower, and she gets really pissed when I talk about him.” He explained, rambling on a little bit but he had never really had any time or any _one_ to talk to about it.

Greg nodded, as though he was beginning to understand the point. “I mean do it on the weekend or something, give her some time to get over it. But that’s reasonable, mate. You’re with her nearly all the time, it shouldn’t matter that you hang out with one of your friends.”

“Yeah, I just feel guilty y’know? She isn’t even a bad person I just don’t… I don’t like her anymore.” He replied, trying to justify it to himself more than anyone else, Greg clearly seemed to realise it,

“And that’s fair, John you feel guilty over this because you hate hurting people. Remember the time you threw the quaffle back and it hit Jessica Valentine in the face?” John winced at the memory, he hadn't intended it, he’d called out her name and everything, but she wasn’t listening, and she turned around just as it hit her. John apologised for weeks and even bought her new gloves as an apology. “But you gotta put yourself first some time.”

John stared into his drink, unsure of what to say. “Yeah.”

Greg laughed, suddenly. “god we are some miserable sops, how about a more light-hearted topic then? How’s your family?”

John bit his lip, taking a breath, deciding he wouldn’t lie bare face to his friend but lying by omission couldn’t hurt. “Oh, they’re good, Dad is fine, and Harry’s been sober for a bit, so her and Clara are doing better How’s things on your end?”  

“Pretty good, introduced Myc to Dad, they got talking about science for a bit. Dad’s a teacher and Myc’s super interested in muggle stuff. You should have seen the look on his face when we got a cab back to Dad’s apartment. It was boring, but I was giddy for a week after that they got on well.”

“I’m happy for you.” John replied, his smile was genuine but his mind was still swirling.

Greg rolled his eyes, placing a hand on John’s shoulder. “Mate, stop worrying about it. Everything is going to be fine”


	14. The Mirror and the New Perspective

Greg was a bit nervous as he walked into Mycroft's apartment, he was going to be staying the night for the first time. He already had a key, for when Mycroft needed him, or he needed Mycroft in an emergency. But he’s never stayed the night.

He walked into the living room, where Mycroft would likely be waiting for him. They had the day planned for weeks, both of them wanted to go for a real date and wanted to spend some quality time with each other. Since visiting the Holmes’ residence while John was there, their time together had been fleeting, with Mycroft moving up a position in the ministry and Greg knuckling down in his training. So, this was the first time in a while where they both had a day off.

It was fairly early in the morning, they were going to Kings Cross to say goodbye to John and Sherlock.

It was weird for him, and he hoped Mycroft felt it too, that they weren’t going back with them. He was unsure of how he would react, but he wanted to be there for his friend. John’s dad, from what Greg knew, never really bothered with him, and he knew how it felt to not have somebody wave him off.

So obviously Mycroft was going with him to give him an excuse to be there.

“You’re nervous.” The elder stated, raising an eyebrow and Greg shrugged in defence, picking up one of Mycroft's umbrellas, handing it to him in an attempt to suggest they needed to go.

“A bit yeah, why?” He replied as Mycroft stood up.

The Slytherin placed a hand on Greg’s cheek, something he’d found would instantly soften Greg to the point of compromise but he disliked manipulating his boyfriend so he only did it when necessary. “No need to be defensive. It was a statement, you have no reason to be.” He pulled Greg in to a short kiss and took his umbrella in the process. Greg pulled away with an eyeroll and began heading for the door.

He picked up the conversation as Mycroft locked the door. “Your parents for starters, quidditch is literally the only thing we have in common and I’m nearly certain they’ll hate the idea of us together.” He hadn't confirmation that the Holmes’ were against gay people, but they seemed to be very traditional, both Sherlock and Mycroft were put into dance lessons and fencing as children, and they seemed to have very set ideas for the two of them.

Mycroft had been talking since they met in fourth year about his father putting him into a job at the ministry.

“Precisely why I haven’t told them. I’m not an idiot Gregory.”

Greg sighed and kissed Mycroft on the cheek, he hated when the other implied he insulted him. “Yes, love, I know but that’s not the point. For seconds, Sherlock, no doubt, will pick up on why _I’m_ there.” He continued, and Mycroft shook his head.

“You place him too highly.”

“Maybe you just underestimate him. He is actually smart.” Greg reasoned, he knew Mycroft as the elder had more experience in deductions than his brother, but he knew Sherlock from what John told him.

Mycroft gave a hum in response. “Debateable.”

“How so?”

He rolled his eyes as if it should be obvious, a look Greg was used to by now. “He still hasn’t worked out why he’s in confinement. He still hasn’t worked out the true nature of his friendship with John. And he’s still on the brink of cracking the mystery behind Sarah Sawyer.”

Greg laughed as he tried to hail a cab. “I guess you’re just _so_ clever.” He was concerned at this point, did Mycroft know what was going on? Was he keeping it to himself?

It didn’t seem in his manner to keep Sherlock in a place of pain if he could prevent it. He shrugged it off, he was being stupid.

“I am.” Mycroft replied, and Greg couldn’t help but smile at the sincerity in his voice

“You’re also a pompous prick, y’know that?”

“I do. However, you are the boyfriend of said pompous prick. What does that make you?”

“A fucking twat.”

That got a proper laugh from the Holmes. “At least you’re aware.” Mycroft smirked at him and he rolled his eyes but the fond smile on Greg’s lips told him he was still in the green.

They were silent for the rest of the journey, Greg payed the cabbie when they arrived at the station. There was a pause and a held breath of apprehension before they went in.

Mycroft took Greg’s hand sensing his anxiety. “Into battle?” He offered and Greg smiled gently, squeezing Mycroft's hand.

“Off we go.”

They found the Holmes’ and John at one of the pillars when they got to Platform 9 and ¾. Mycroft's parents gave them a courteous smile and a greeting, Sherlock gave a nod to his brother and John gave him a _hello_ filled with forced happiness.

John really didn’t like Mycroft, did he?

Greg found that interesting, he and John were similar in so many ways, but John couldn’t stand Mycroft, and Greg wasn’t a huge fan of Sherlock.

Odd. It was very odd.

“Why’re you here Greg?” John asked, turning to his friend, the Holmes had sort of split off to discuss how Mycroft was doing at work, so it was just the two of them. John had a bit of a growth spurt over the course of the summer, and was now only slightly shorter than the elder, rather than a foot of difference.

Greg raised an eyebrow and then raised his hands in mock defence. “I see where I'm not welcomed.” He replied and John’s face flushed, and he rolled his eyes.

“No, no, I just mean, I dunno- _Who_ are you here for?” He rephrased and Greg froze struggling on the spot for his excuse.

“Mycroft came to see Sherlock off, we’re getting lunch after, thought I’d tag along, wave goodbye to the express and all that.” He replied, trying to keep his voice casual.

John gave him a look that told him he was fucked for his excuses. “Bullshit, Mycroft is too busy for this he wouldn’t have come if you didn’t, and I doubt you’ll miss the train that much, what’s the real reason?”

He had expected Sherlock to know, John however, he did not foresee.

“Sherlock really has rubbed off on you hasn’t he?”

“Me, then.” John replied, and when Greg didn’t say anything he looked to the floor. “That’s it, then. Greg I get that we’re mates and that you’re older, but you don’t have to babysit me. Just ‘cause my dad can’t be assed with me doesn’t mean you’re obligated to.” He spoke, and Greg felt the guilt pile in his stomach, he’d meant the gesture to be comforting, not smothering or pitiful.

“I know, I know. Its-“ He sighed, and John looked up at him. “Look, back in first year, my mum wanted nothing to do with me, my dad was in prison, my grandparents thought I was going to boarding school and I couldn’t let them know about the platform. So, until I was seventeen, I didn’t have anybody to wave me goodbye. Its shit isn’t it?” He asked and John just shrugged.

“A bit yeah but I’m fine.”

“Mate, it’s alright, I didn’t mean to impose.”

“No, thank you, Greg.” He laughed, looking up to the ceiling, embarrassment fading from his face. “It’s gonna be weird this year, without you as captain and Mycroft up my ass twenty-four-seven.”

“I mean he was me for that now.” Greg replied with a grin as John’s eyes widened.

The fourth year shoved him, scrunching up his face in disgust. “That a sick image, spare me the details.” Greg winked at him and he rolled his eyes.

“I was being serious though.” He gave the elder a pointed glare. “Other than Sherlock, you’re my only friend, I’m gonna miss you.”

“I’m only a call away if you need me. They’re going now, so you best be off.” Greg replied, pointing over to the Holmes’

Then John did something completely unexpected. Greg expected a wave or a fist-bump, considering that that’s what he was like at age fifteen. But despite being fifteen and full of insecurity, he turned quickly and pulled Greg into a hug. “Thanks, Greg.”

Once he got over the initial shock, his hand found the back of John’s head, the other went to his back. “Have a good year, mate.”

 

**

 

“I still don’t understand why blindfolding me was necessary, surely it would’ve been easier without it.” John spoke, as he pulled the scarf up off his face, blinking at the brightness of the room.

It was the weekend, and Sherlock had burst into the library with more excitement than John had expected for a Saturday afternoon.

They were about a week back into school, and Sherlock finally managed to get this whole ordeal organised enough to be plausible. He’d had it sitting, pinned up in the drawing room of his mind palace since the summer.

Now he was finally able to make it real. It was reasonable that he was excited about it.

John looked surprised, doing a full turn to take in his surroundings. It was an empty room, not big enough to echo dramatically, but enough to feel lonely without another person. In the middle was a mirror, a few metres away from where John stood.

“Whats with the creepy mirror? Looks like something from the Addams Family.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow, looking at John in confusion. “Who? How did they get a mirror like that? This is the only one that should-“

John caught his eye and burst out laughing, much to the Ravenclaw’s confusion. “They’re not real, it’s a muggle thing, calm down a bit.” He replied, putting his hands up.

“Oh.” Sherlock replied, shaking his head, he had too much to learn about muggle culture. “Stand in front of it, like you would a normal one.”

The Gryffindor raised an eyebrow. “So, this one isn’t normal then.”

“Don’t insult me, of course it’s not.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, not in a mean way, and John shook his head in response.

“Alright, I'm going.”

Sherlock stood a few feet back, in a way that he could see John’s face enough to read his expression but wouldn’t be in John’s view of the mirror.

The Gryffindor was staring like he was in a trance, eyes trained to the mirror. “I don’t- How did you- What is this?” He spoke, turning his head, eyes wide in fear, disbelief, and he turned to look behind him, then back to the mirror.

“It’s the mirror of Erised.” Sherlock explained, shoving his hands in his pockets. “What do you see?”

“My- My parents, like I told you over summer- Look at them!” John replied, tugging on Sherlock’s sleeve to drag him into the field of view where he should have been able to see. “Its them- the way they were before she got sick- look how happy they are.”

Sherlock was too busy focusing on how happy John looked in that moment, not a single glance was cast to the reflection.

He frowned, realising John didn’t understand. “I can’t see it John. Its your desire, not mine.”

“Oh- I’m sorry- I just thought-“ John replied, letting go as his face flushed.

“Just talk John, tell me whats happening.”

“Dad’s in his armchair, they’re in our living room, but they’re _here_. She- She’s dancing, mum is. Dad’s smiling up at her and- a-and she’s pulling him up to join her.” The more he spoke the more his voice began to tremble. “They’re happy, laughing- He’s holding her and-“ He broke off his sentence, as tears began to fall, he put his head in his hand.

“John? Are you okay?” He asked after a moment, John wiped the tears away from his face and straightened up, sniffing, but there was a smile on his face, a _real_ one.

He gave a soft laugh, looking up at his friend. “I’m brilliant. I'm so _…_ ” He took in a deep breath, glancing back to the mirror. “ _Brilliant_. Thank you, Sherlock.”

“You’re welcome.” Sherlock smiled despite the fact John wasn’t looking at him.

Suddenly the Gryffindor’s eyes lit up and his expression filled with excitement like he’d just had the greatest idea in the world. “Here, look- What do you see in it then?” John spoke up, pulling Sherlock into the position he was in, so he had a clear view of the mirror.

Sherlock had anticipating this happening.

He had no clue what he was about to see. He wanted to avoid the temptation but once he had his eyes fixed on the mirror it was hard for him to look away.

Because it _wasn’t_ changing.  

It was just him, and John. They were standing the same way, except for their hands. They were interlocked in the reflection, Sherlock looked down at his own hand, feeling uncomfortably empty now he’d seen it, he clenched it and looked back up.

Real John said something but he didn’t hear it properly, still transfixed on the reflection. Mirror John was looking at him with a look of pure adoration, he laughed suddenly and stood on his toes to press a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek.

He swore he could’ve felt it.

“Sherlock?” Real John’s voice finally carried through and Sherlock realised he had his hand on his cheek, where the reflection had kissed him, he quickly dropped it and averted his gaze from the mirror and John.

“Sorry, what were you saying?”

“What do you see?”

“Oh- I'm head boy, Ravenclaw won the house cup, I’m not in confinement anymore.” He replied quickly, cursing himself at the lie, it was obvious. “Sorry, I brought you here for this, this is your thing.” He added, stepping away from the spot he was in, his head was pounding.

“I still can’t believe you did this for me.”

“Yes, well…” Sherlock paused, should he tell him the truth? _Could_ he? He didn’t understand how or why it could be beneficial to him, but there was something dark and sickly stirring in his stomach at the lie he’d told and the image of John’s lips on his cheek. They’d had an incident before, but Sherlock was nearly frozen and didn’t feel anything from it, he couldn’t be sure that John didn’t. It was a mess and his head was spinning. He should tell him. “About the mirror, John- when- When people look into it for too long they go insane, caught up in a desire that can’t be true. So please, and I'm not doing it for meanness sake, once you decide you’re done, don’t ever try to come back here, and please don’t ask me to either. Can you do that for me?”

He rolled his eyes inwardly, he could’ve slapped himself there and then. What a chicken.

John spent the next few hours staring into the mirror, never at his own reflection, always at whatever was behind or next to him.

Sherlock had brought a book with him to read in order to give John some semblance of privacy, though he did glance up from time to time, whether it was to see tears or a smile, mostly a combination of both. However, instead of reading, he managed to find some parchment paper hastily shoved between the back page from the cover.

He had a question to ask, and he knew only one person who had a hope of knowing the answer.

_Dear Mycroft,_

_I'm sure from your years spent at Hogwarts you have come across The Mirror of Erised, I have a query about it._

_Has it ever been wrong? Because after my experience with it I am almost certain it is, possibly a result of charm erosion? Maybe some other effect._

_Let me know your thoughts._

  * _SH_



**

 

The first quidditch practice of the year, Sarah hadn't shown, Dimmock had went over the rules. He’d been a good player and was a strict Captain. John wasn’t as close to him as he was with Greg but he was tolerable.

His mind had been a bit wavy since Sherlock had shown him the mirror, but true to his word he had never even attempted to think about where the mirror was. Okay, maybe the thought had crossed his mind, but he’d made a promise to his friend and he was a man of his word.  His head was fuzzy, and his focus was gone.

He had so many things he needed to talk about and no way to word them. Nobody who cared to ask.

If Greg was here he would’ve noticed, would’ve cornered him and badgered it out of him until he broke. He always felt better after but he needed the initial few kicks to speak up.

In lessons he was doing fairly but he’d stopped socialising with anyone really. It was the result of his avoiding Sarah. The only time he’d seen her was at try-out’s in the very beginning of the year and even then he felt too sick with guilt to even stay and talk.

Running his hands through his hair again he shut the water off and grabbed his towel, running through his hair, trying to shake the thoughts from his head. He had to stop feeling guilty about this, Greg had told him he was being reasonable. He was entitled to his own emotions.

He was.

Right?

When he stepped out of the shower, towel around his waist he nearly screamed.

Leaning against the wall of the boys changing room, was a girl. She had curly blonde hair, and a happy looking face. She was one of Sarah’s friends, her best friend if he remembered right, the Ravenclaw chaser, her name wasn’t coming to mind but he recognised her enough to know that she wasn’t supposed to be there.

“Jesus Christ, what are you doing here?” He breathed, shocked, holding his towel tight and resting a hand on his heart, feeling it racing. His face was hot with embarrassment and he felt his body crawl with anxiety

“I came to talk to you before she could get to you.” She replied, with a raised eyebrow, looking unfazed at the fact that John was just out of the shower, or that she was intruding quite severely into his personal space.

“She?” John asked, dropping his hand and staring back

“Sarah.” She deadpanned, looking at John like he was an idiot, whilst he just stared back at her in disbelief. This was ridiculous.

“Okay, whats going on? Is she breaking up with me?” He asked, trying to keep the relief out of his tone, but the girl just rolled her eyes and shrugged.

“Sort of the opposite?”

John dropped his shoulders and simply stared at her. She wasn’t making any logical point and he was getting annoyed now. “Okay now you aren’t making any sense.”

She looked around, as if she was only now careful of anyone else being in the room or listening. “Look she isn’t who she says she is, and I’ve got nothing to lose now, so I can let you know what she’s really like.”

John gave her a nod, still sort of sceptically. “Okay, I’m listening. But I have to be at the library in like ten minutes so can you- I dunno- turn around or something?” He asked, gesturing to his backpack filled with is usual clothes.

“Oh right, sorry.” She replied, flushing finally, as if this entire situation hadn't been embarrassing for John the whole time, and turned around,  

“Go on then.” John replied, quickly pulling his boxers on before trying to dry himself properly with the towel.

“Ever heard of Amortentia?” She asked, swaying from side to side to occupy herself whilst she waited.

“The love potion?” John paused looking at her, arms halfway into his favourite jumper.

She wasn’t… No- She couldn’t- He was being ridiculous. She was only fourth year, she didn’t have the resources.

“The very one. She’s been putting it in your food for the last year and a half.”

She was. She could. She did.

“She _what?_ ” John replied in shock dropping his boots, they hit the floor with a thud and John simply stared at them as they were tipped over on the floor.

“Her sister’s specialty was potions, she had been using it on you to keep you infatuated.” The girl continued, explaining the situation further.

John managed to pick up his shoes with shaky hands. “I was thinking about breaking up with her.” He spoke, not really to the girl but to himself, still in a state of shock.

“Because she couldn’t get to you over the summer.” She replied. “It’ll take a little while to set in. When I realised what was going on for myself I couldn’t believe it either. She told me everything.”

“So why are you telling me?” John asked. “Oh- Uh- You can turn around now.”

“We got in a scrap, poor thing got her nose broke.” She spoke, holding her hand up and clenching her fist as if she was examining it. “Threatened to use her blackmail on me out me to the whole school but I told her I didn’t give two shits. She’s a controlling bitch.” She shrugged again, making a face as if to say _what can you do?_

John’s head was spinning, he ran a hand through his damp hair, trying to make sense of everything he was being told. “Blackmail?”

The Ravenclaw shrugged again, nodding. “Yeah, she had dirt on all her friends, gets close enough for secrets and then makes them do her bidding. Manipulated them. Learned from the best.”

“What do you expect me to do now? I have to break up with her.” John breathed holding his head and sighing, letting his shoulders drop, the girl gave him a pity-filled glance.

“My advice? We divide and conquer, there’s six that I know of.”

“Fine. Thank you by the way…” He looked at her, gesturing for her to finish.

“Mary, Mary Morstan.” She stuck out her hand.

He took it, her grip was firmer than expected but he didn’t mind. “John Watson.”


	15. The break-down and the break-up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is kinda shitty, im just stressed and dysphoric, writing is hard, but I get off school for two weeks on Friday, so I hope to get at least one chapter written during that time.

It was the weekend, and as dastardly as it was, Greg had come to meet John at Hogsmeade. He didn’t know much other than John had sounded upset in his letter and was at the point where breaking the rules was no longer an issue to him.

Obviously Greg didn’t encourage him breaking the rules, but if something was so vital that he had to swear to secrecy especially in regards to Mycroft, he supposed he could let it slide.

The younger Gryffindor burst through the doors of The Three Broomsticks, red in the face and out of breath, obviously having ran in fear of being tailed or caught. He walked calmly toward Greg, as if the loud bang of the doors opening hadn't already caught everybody’s attention.

Greg called the bartender over and got John a drink, once he had begun to breathe steady and took a few sips, Greg broke the silence.

“Okay, what the hell is wrong, you’re worrying me now.” He asked, his brow was furrowed and his concern was written all over his face. John looked like he wanted to break down in tears, staring into his drink.

“You remember when we went to Diagon Alley? And I said about Sarah?” He replied, tracing patterns into the table, ignoring Greg’s stare, avoiding it even, which was even more concerning.

“Yeah, did you end it?” John didn’t respond, and suddenly the cogs started to turn in Greg’s head, with all the different possibilities rushing through it. “Wait, did she end it before you?”

“Sort of the opposite.” John replied, his tone unchanging, his voice was filled with tears but his expression was neutral.

Greg’s shoulders slumped and confusion wrote itself onto his face. “You lost me.”

“Her sister, Avery Sawyer, her specialty was potions.” He took a breath. “Sarah got in a row with her best friend, who told me Sarah was putting Amortentia in my food, had been the entire time.”

Greg froze.

He did a double take and paused for a minute, unable to believe what he’d just heard.

John’s girlfriend and essentially been drugging him since second year.

“Her sister was making love potions for her to drug you?” He needed to clarify what he’d understood, John nodded, taking a sip of his drink. “Mate, that’s not okay, genuinely it’s- that- that’s ridiculously _fucked_ \- how did- _how_ can she do that?”

“I-I don’t-“ He inhaled sharply, his shoulders hunched as he leaned into the bar, still staring into his mug like it was the most interesting thing. “I don’t know.”

“Well that checks out doesn’t it? You hadn't seen her in almost two months when you wanted to dump her, two months she hadn't been doing it, and two months you could think clearly.” Greg spoke, saying his thoughts aloud, and John nodded

“She sent me a valentine in second year, I ignored it. A few months later and we were dating regardless. Nobody said anything.”

Greg shook his head. “Sherlock found it weird.”

John looked up, turning to Greg in confusion. “He did? He told me he knew, but not from the beginning, I thought he just figured it out over time. He knew, that prick knew from the very beginning and didn’t say anything!”

“Whoah, easy, it was hearsay from Myc.”

John smirked, and gave a half-hearted laugh. “Everything is.”

“She took-“

“Years, two years of my life from me- I know.” John cut him off, clearly he’d already had that thought. “I feel so dizzy all the time, unsure of what I said or did or how it effected all my choices. I'm scared, fucking terrified, because I remember it all, but I can’t tell.”

Greg put a hand on his shoulder, not gripping tight enough to hurt, but firm, grounding him, holding him in place. “Stop. Stop talking, you’re getting worked up, just breathe alright?” He gave John a look and the younger boy nodded, closing his mouth and taking a slow breath through his nose. “She should get expelled for that, that _cannot_ be legal.”

“I know but I couldn’t do that- It’d ruin her life and I don’t want to- I can’t-“ His speech was becoming erratic and his breathing began to speed up.

“Breathing John. Steady.” Greg noted, squeezing his shoulder before dropping his hand.

John shook his head, running a hand over his face. “Sorry, Greg- I just-“

“Don’t apologise for this, John. It’s not your fault, its hers, she did this to you and nobody else. So just try to calm down, you shouldn’t be letting it get to you this much.” This wouldn’t effect him this much, Greg knew John, maybe he wasn’t a Holmes, maybe he couldn’t read minds, but he knew his friend. John was calm, he was a happy person, it took a lot to make him like this, so it couldn’t just be Sarah, if it was just Sarah he would have broke up with her and tried to get over it.

And nothing, from what Greg knew, had ever got him worked up this much, other than Sherlock.

“What did Sherlock do?”

John sighed, placing his head in his hands. “He didn’t do anything. _I_ did something really fucking stupid.” He groaned even as he said the words, sinking into the bar until his head hit the hardwood surface.

 “What?” Greg replied, calmly, trying to avoid getting John worked up, but considering the boy currently had his face planted against the bar, he doubted that would be an issue.

“SherlockknowsIlikehim.” He replied, but his voice was muffled.

“I can’t hear you when you’re talking to the bar, mate.”

“Sherlock knows I like him.”

“You _like_ him?”

“Yeah, and he knows, and he knows _I_ know he knows.”

“And what’s so bad about that?” Greg asked

“Because he told me and I- I didn’t even deny it.”

“So, he knows you know he knows for certain. Does he like you back?”

“I don’t know.”

Greg couldn’t help a grin at how ridiculous this whole conversation had become, and John managed to smile back at him, taking a sip. “Well then why don’t you find out?”

 

**

 

Sherlock was still in confinement. After the incident in the summer, and a harsh word or two from his father, he received a letter over the summer that if, by the time it had been a full year since the incident, he didn’t make anymore ruckus, they’d allow him back into normal school life.

It had been two weeks and so far he was going strong, still trying to put together the pieces as to how Molly Hooper was stupefied if he didn’t do it.

John stormed into Sherlock’s tower with a face like thunder, he flopped himself down on the cold stone floor and negated to even wince when his head made a noticeable thud against it.

He was angry, it wasn’t difficult to tell, he knew hiding it would be futile, Sherlock always knew when he was lying, knew when he was hiding, knew when everything was fake. He could lie by omission maybe (most likely not) but anything else didn’t fly.

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock asked, putting his book down, leaning over the side of his bed t glance down at john on the floor. The Gryffindor had tear tracks streaking down his face, and his eyes were red, he didn’t hide his face, but he looked away from Sherlock’s stare.

Ah. The news had been broken then.

John rolled his eyes, staring up at the ceiling, crossing his arms over his chest. “Oh don’t give me that shit; you know rightly what it is.”

Sherlock cocked a brow at him, sniffing in annoyance, before turning back to his book and John felt a pang of guilt in his already sick stomach. “You go between wishing I’m an idiot and praising my brilliance, how am I supposed to tell which?” The Ravenclaw replied pointedly.

“Sarah.” John replied simply, the hint of a sob in his throat but he swallowed it down.

“And the amortentia.” Sherlock finished, nodding to nobody but himself.

“Yes, I know!” John burst out suddenly, before cringing back on himself, he hadn’t meant it to sound so whiny, he was just _upset_. Sherlock had sat up now to look at him on the floor. “I just- I can’t _believe_ I let her play me like a fucking fiddle for two whole years.”

Sherlock made a face before correcting him. “A year and a half.”

 

It became a bit clearer that this whole thing would’ve been very apparent to Sherlock and Mycroft, they would have known from the get-go that something was off, yet nobody thought to correct him, or let him know that whatever semblance of love he thought he was feeling was fake.

 

“You knew the whole time didn’t you.” John replied bitterly, glaring at him for no other reason than his desire to glare at something, Sherlock just happened to be the nearest thing.

 

“It was obvious, you’d go from being fed up with her to down on your knees worshipping her every word like it was gospel. And it always happened over meals, it was hard to ignore. She was putting it in your food. I thought it was rather odd that she’d brought muffins to your quidditch practice once without occasion and never again. She doesn’t bake regularly, nor does she enjoy it so there was no reason for it. Looking into it I found that her sister was in Mycroft’s year and specialised in potions. It was fairly clear from there after noticing the fluctuation in your behavioural patterns that something dubious was going on. ” Sherlock replied before lying back, the book abandoned, now falling slowly off the bed.

 

“Then why the _hell_ didn’t you say anything?” John replied, placing his hands on his head, massaging his temples as his head began to pound.

Sherlock shrugged. “You got annoyed at me for pointing out to Molly that Jim is gay. I figured if I were to end your own relationship you’d be furious.”

“Yeah but that’s different, because Molly was-“

“Is.” Sherlock corrected, already knowing what John was getting at.

“ _Is_ trying to get over you and you were hardly making it any easier for her.”

Sherlock looked over the bed, and gave John a look of exasperation. “Like I said, how am I supposed to know these things?”

“You aren’t, I’m sorry, I’m being a prick.” John replied, placing a hand over his eyes as tears threatened to well up, Sherlock sighed gently, feeling guilt stir in his stomach, decided get off the bed and sit down beside him. “It’s not your fault, its mine, I should’ve seen it, I barely liked her as a friend, even when she joined the team. I’m just angry, I feel so stupid…”

Sherlock took his other hand gently, locking their fingers as a gesture of comfort. “I’m sorry.” He spoke quietly, his voice a deep rumble in his throat.

“What for?” John asked, laughing sadly.

“Nothing, that’s just what people say isn’t it?”

John laughed genuinely this time, it wasn’t much but it was enough. “Don’t be daft.”

“How did you find out?” Sherlock asked. John clearly hadn't guessed, he’d been influenced by this potion for a while, there was no plausible way for him to clock onto it.

“She got in a row with her best mate, the Ravenclaw chaser, Mary I think? They’re not friends anymore so she came and told me, scared the living daylights out of me when I saw her in the boys changing rooms.” John replied, managing a laugh.

“And she told you Sarah is manipulating you.”  Sherlock noted, eyes closed, trying to piece the reiterated knowledge together in his mind palace. It had taken on a new light, now somebody else had said the same things he’d been thinking about for months, a new tone had been taken on, and new ideas represented.

“A controlling bitch, yeah.” John corrected, not censoring the venom that filled his tone. 

“Did you break up with her?” The Ravenclaw asked

“No, we decided to tell all her friends, Mary said she does it to all of them, she was influencing them as well. She played sly with me, I might as well return the favour. She’ll probably confront me about it tomorrow, if not tonight.”

“If you stay here it won’t be tonight, tomorrow and she’ll slap you in the dining hall in front of everyone.”

“Everyone sounds good. I don’t want another bloke to have to deal with this shit.”

“I’ve taught you well then.”

“Well you are the best drama queen I know.”

“Piss off.”

“Make me then, smart-arse.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but didn’t reply, which left them in a somewhat sullen silence. Sherlock had his eyes closed running through the halls of his mind, searching frantically for the thing that would make all the pieces click together. He was close. He was so fucking close, he was just missing _something_.

There was just silence, just the both of them laying on Sherlock’s floor, the cold stone seeping through the thin of his shirt, and John finally cracked.

Sherlock heard the first sniff and he knew what was happening. He opened his eyes, and glanced over, John was crying again.

“What did I do to her to deserve this? Why did she feel she had to do that to me? I just- I- I can’t do it Sherlock- I can’t fucking do it!” He sat up abruptly and coughed, shaking from the tears and the rush to his head.

Sherlock sat beside him, placing a careful hand on his friend’s back. “John, listen to me now. It wasn’t something you did, it was what you didn’t. She manifested a love for you and when you didn’t reciprocate, she decided to force you to. Its her own twisted views, you did _nothing_ wrong.” He understood that John could hear everything he was saying, whether he was listening or not was a different thing.

He was too busy choking on his own words.

It wasn’t gentle tears slipping down his face or breaking sobs, it was choking. Each sob sounded painful and tears were cascading down faster than Sherlock had ever seen, dripping onto the floor from his chin.

Sherlock rubbed his back in gentle circles, deciding it would be best to let him get it out of his system.

He’d had a year and a half of his life and his decisions ripped away from him. He’d been drugged into love against his will.

Sherlock knew it was reasonable.

The Gryffindor was hyperventilating now. “I can’t do it Sh-Sherlock- I can’t b-breathe- I just- I don’t- I-I-“

Sherlock moved so he was in front of John, staring into his eyes, one of his hands was on John’s shoulder and the other was underneath his chin, forcing him to look. Deep blue met seafoam green and Sherlock felt a pang of sadness and an ache in his throat. “John stop talking, you’re wasting your breath. In through the nose, count to three, exhale through your lips.” He spoke as John completed each action with hiccupped breaths. “Relax your shoulders, close your eyes, just focus on my voice, can you do that for me?” Sherlock asked and John gave him a solitary nod. “Keep breathing John, I’m here, I’m not leaving. I’ve got you.”

He waited until John’s breathing went back to being fairly normal, the tears had stopped, and the hiccups were less frequent. “I’m sorry.”

John opened his eyes. “Why- Why do you keep saying that?”

“Because I am partially to blame.” Sherlock replied, his voice filled with more sincerity than he could remember having ever before. 

Confusion wrote itself onto John’s face, mixed with frustration and upset. “What the hell are you talking about?” His voice cracked.

“I know that you like me, John.”

John didn’t run, he didn’t scream, he didn’t hit. He stared wide and scared into Sherlocks own gaze, tears began to well and suddenly it all came crashing down. Sherlock watched it happen like it was all in slow motion. “I’m so sorry- I- I’m so fucking sorry!”

 

**

 

John and Sherlock sat at the Ravenclaw table.

Sherlock had been kind enough to invite him to sit, so he could avoid the Gryffindor table as long as possible. “She will most likely try to find you, once she realises what you’ve done.”

“What I’ve done?” John asked, unable to stop the offense slipping into his voice.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Figure of speech. Mary told her you were dumping her, correct?”

“I mean yeah, but it’s justified, right?” John replied, running his hands through his hair.

“Of course it is, idiot. I’m asking to see if what I’ve deduced will pan out.”

Everything he could be thinking about at that moment was gone, his head was filled with TV static and white noise as he spooned cereal into his mouth. He couldn’t taste it, it felt like his entire body had gone numb, like it was on autopilot.

He was just waiting the inevitable.

Sherlock was saying something to him, but he wasn’t listening, it probably wasn’t that important anyway-

_Smack._

A stinging fire of pain shot across his face and he dropped his spoon. There it was. He expected it, he knew it was probably coming but it shocked him more than he’d expected it would. He turned to see Sarah, looking furious, es expected. Her face was as red as the handprint on his cheek and her expression looked like she’d just been slapped.

A small bit of worldly irony, John resisted the urge to smile, even just a little.

“What the _fuck_ Sarah!?” He shouted just loud enough for the table over to take notice, and soon silence but a whisper cascaded over the hall, the teachers seemed to take no notice. He stood up, face riddled with fake anger, Sherlock said it would fly fine so long as she was blinded by her own rage.

“You son of a bitch! You spread rumours about me, and all my friends hate me.”

John took a breath, ignoring all the eyes that were on him, focusing on Sarah. Sherlock told him to focus on his own emotions and channel them into confidence. “They aren’t rumours if they’re true Sarah. So, what is the truth?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She replied, her expression turning coy as the anger faded into panic, staring around her at everybody staring.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about. Let’s start with Amortentia.” He said simply. “The love potion meant for only seventh years to brew. Let’s start with how you’ve been drugging me on it for our entire relationship.”

She spluttered, unsure of what to say, mortified that she’d been caught out. It didn’t take a deduction to work that out. “Wha- I- You-“

“I _what_?” John deadpanned. He hadn't done anything wrong in this entire ordeal, as far as everybody was concerned, he was the victim, because he _was_ the victim. “I didn’t like you, I didn’t _love_ you, so you thought your only option was to make me?”

“Well you didn’t love me, what was I supposed to do?” She replied, her voice breaking, she appeared genuinely upset like John had wronged her.

“Get over it, like any other normal person!” John yelled back, infuriated now.

“Why didn’t you just like me!?” She was crying now, and John fell back on his anger, his shoulders falling and he took a step back.

“Because I’m human.” He raised his hands in somewhat surrender. “I'm _allowed_ to make my own decisions.”

She glared at him through her tears. “But we- we have so much in common- and- I-“

“I like somebody else, okay!? I like _somebody_ _else_. And you know what? If they don’t like me back then I wont drug them and take a year of their _life_ away from them!” He could feel everything building up, and swallowed in the hopes to force down all his anger and upset. “Fuck you, Sarah,” His voice broke into a whisper.  “It’s no wonder you don’t have any friends.”

She smirked and wiped her tears away. “I have more friends than you, gay-boy, why don’t you run back to your psycho boyfriend?”

Sherlock took this as his cue to get up, waving a finger in her direction, and pacing delicately around John as he spoke. “Oh, he forgot to mention how you payed Jim to stupefy Molly, clever thinking to use a metamorphagus. And it’s _socio_ , not psycho, check your facts.”

_Another slap._

John didn’t flinch as much as he expected he would, but Sherlock was having none of it. “Lay another hand on him and you won’t live to regret it.”

Sarah looked genuinely scared at that point, Sherlock’s voice had gone deep, threatening, John couldn’t tell whether he was being serious or not but knowing him it was likely that he wasn’t bluffing.

“Sherlock don’t.” John held up a hand, he could do this himself, he _needed_ to do this himself. “Sarah, I hope you find somebody who does love you, because nobody deserves this, nobody. So please, just leave me alone.” He took a breath and walked past them quickly, he didn’t want to do this anymore, he didn’t want to think about it anymore, he didn’t want to talk. He didn’t want to.

She might have said something in retort, Sherlock might have said something in support, but all John could hear was white noise, feeling like his body was on autopilot as he walked out of the great hall.

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t hear. He couldn’t think.

The stares didn’t matter.

Sarah didn’t matter.

Sherlock didn’t matter.

He didn’t know what did.


	16. The Not-So Heart-Shaped Box

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been like four months, I'm so sorry
> 
> Not to make excuses (but to make excuses lmao) I had exams and I've been either working or sleeping all summer so yikes
> 
> Dont know how good this is but it exists to here you go.

Greg opened the door to his apartment, it was open, meaning Mycroft was here, and he smiled softly as he hung up his coat and his bag, tossing his keys into a bowl on the sideboard in the hall. Once the extra weight was off his shoulders, he stretched back, wincing as his back cracked. He was nineteen for Christ’s sake.

“Myc?” He called out, he could hear music playing softly throughout. Mycroft had given him a record player for his birthday, though it seemed to be more of a present for Mycroft than for Greg himself. He didn’t mind it though.

“Kitchen!” Mycroft called back, and Greg walked in to see a bottle of wine on the table, and when he inhaled he finally clocked on to the smell of something good.

“Chinese?” He asked, tempted to giggle at their one-word language, they seemed to speak in lectures or quips, with no happy medium, but it was convenient at the best of times. If either of them had the patience they could probably learn Morse code, and then talking wouldn’t be necessary.

Greg didn’t think Mycroft even knew what Morse code even was, did the wizarding world ever see the telegraph? He doubted it.

Mycroft glanced at him, over his shoulder, he was preparing the plates. “Thai, from your favourite.”

“Whats going on?” Greg raised an eyebrow; this wasn’t really like Mycroft. 

“Well,” Mycroft replied, uncorking the wine, and pouring Greg a glass as he sat down. “You’ve seemed stressed recently, I thought coming home to something more pleasant would help ease it.”

Greg’s smile disappeared. Had he? He thought he was better at hiding it. There worst part of it all was that it wasn’t even from training at work.

He, to his own annoyance, was worried about John. He still hadn't let their little get together at Hogsmeade slip his mind, and it was plaguing him that something so awful had happened to somebody he cared so much about.

He wished he could be like Mycroft. Mycroft never seemed to care about those types of things.

“A bit yeah.”

“Would you like to talk about it?” Mycroft asked, taking a seat across from Greg.

Greg sighed, glancing up from the table, stirring his fork through his curry. “Do you know Sarah Sawyer?” He asked, and Mycroft eyebrow quirked up, as he swallowed a forkful of his own meal.

“John’s beau.” He replied, his tone certain.

Greg shook his head. “Not anymore. She was- She was fucking drugging him Myc.” Mycroft’s eyes widened. “Avery, in our year, Snape’s pet, remember?- She was making Amortentia for Sarah to give to John and _that’s_ why he dated her. She fucking took two years of his life from him, just to make him love her!” The frustration rose in his voice, the more he talked about it. The anger was now uncorked and flowing through his words

“Well yes, anyone could see that.”

“You knew?” It was now Greg’s turn to be shocked, outraged even.

“I suppose, but-“

“But? Mycroft you were fucking head boy! A prefect! You knew the whole time and didn’t say anything!?” Greg was furious now, he stood up with so much force that the chair knocked against the wall behind him.

Mycroft mimicked his actions and stood up, but his movements were those of panic. “It wasn’t my place to-“

“It was, Mycroft, it was _exactly_ your place.” Greg replied coldly, despite his body being filled with fire, he noticed the kettle had switched on and the hob was glowing red as his anger grew out of hand. “I’m going out.” He replied, storming don the corridor to grab his coat.

“Where?” Mycroft called after him, pacing after him, but he already had his coat on, opening the door.

“I don’t know.”

He did know.

Mycroft found him at a pub a few blocks down from their- _Greg’s_ flat. It wasn’t the coyest thing, but Greg was filled with rage, usually when he wanted to douse the flames of his own rage he did it with alcohol. It wasn’t an alcoholic habit, Mycroft supposed he just enjoyed the way that it nulled his thoughts.

He’d waited for the album to finish, waited to let Greg calm down, and for the information settle in his own mind. This was maybe his biggest cock up. He’d been useless to help John, he’d upset Greg, hurt him. This entire situation was hurting him, how could he have been so blind to it?

He was an idiot.

He might have cried into his wine glass, not that he’d ever admit it.

Greg was sat, his face on the table in the back of the pub, three empty pint glasses sat in front of him and there was one in his hand, below half empty.

“I figured you’d be here.” Mycroft spoke, calmly and he took a seat opposite the now drunken Gregory.

The police trainee tilted his head to the side so his words would be audible, but he didn’t lift it from the table. “How’d you figure that then?”

“Well, it calms you down, reminds you of your father, and the happy memories you’ve shared. The music, and the chatter distract you. And you like a drink.” He smirked.

“Smarty-pants.” Greg giggled; his anger clearly gone at this point.

Mycroft couldn’t help but smile gently. “Do you want to leave?”

“Do _you_ want me to?”

“I’d prefer you didn’t get absolutely plastered, you are working tomorrow, remember.”

“’S fair.” Greg replied, sitting up, draining the rest of his pint. His eyes were red around the edges from crying, and there was a hint of bloodshot from the alcohol now coursing through his veins.

“You really care about him don’t you.” Mycroft spoke once they were out the door, into the cool night. “John, I mean.”

It took Greg a minute to respond as they paced slowly down the darkened streets, lit gently yellow by the lampposts, cold air whipping past them as cars sped by. “He’s my teammate, ‘nd one of my best mates, he gets being a muggle ‘nd I jus’ really love him… I always wanted a little brother.” Greg mumbled, he’d put his arm around Mycroft's waist now, half cuddling into him and half using him to keep balanced.

“I’m sorry for not saying anything. I didn’t realise the severity of the situation.” He replied, trying not to let on how much he was enjoying the level of affection that drunk Greg always displayed.

“’S not your fault, isn’ like you gave him it. Shouldn’t have happened at all whether you knew or not.” Greg murmured as they walked into the block of flats, he stumbled into the lift, and pressed the button of his floor, jabbing it repeatedly like a child, with a giddy smile on his face.

“Is she going to be expelled?” Mycroft asked after a moment of silence.

“John doesn’ want her to be.”  

“How honourable.” Mycroft remarked, his tone was slightly bitter. “If it were me or Sherlock she’d be in Azkaban.”

“Good think it wasn’t you two then.”

Mycroft ran a hand through his hair. “A good thing indeed.” He opened the door to the apartment, kicking his shoes off at the door.

“You gonna come to bed? Greg asked from down the hall.

“I beg your pardon?” His cheeks still flared red at that question, though he didn’t feel comfortable about it when Greg was in a state like this.

“To sleep, twat!” Greg called back.

“Wanker!”

“Love you too!”

 

**

 

Things continued as normal at Hogwarts. Sherlock, found this strange, John seemed to have completely ignored the fact that feelings had been revealed. Well, correction, _John’s_ feelings had been revealed. Sherlocks remained safely locked away in a small box in the very back of his mind palace, where he’d thrown it and left it to rot since his first year at Hogwarts.

As far as anybody was concerned, they didn’t exist.

He knew they did, and he’d have to deal with them at some point. After the mirror of erised he’d locked them away but they rattled around, a continuous humming the back of his mind. But right now, they didn’t matter and he didn’t have to.

Sarah, per John’s request to Dumbledore, albeit quite frantic, was to serve detention and removed from the quidditch team.

She wasn’t allowed in any of his classes, she wasn’t allowed near him in general, rightfully so.

If Sherlock had it his way, she wouldn’t have been allowed on the same land mass of John, but he wasn’t, and so long as John was content he supposed he’d have to be as well.

Sherlock stared at him at breakfast, studying him as he read through the paper, his eyes scoring through the words as he absorbed the information from the pages, he wasn’t even pining over Sherlock at breakfast like he usually was. Something wasn’t right.

It was as if their roles were switched, now Sherlock was staring at John, studying him, more than usual, watching him in lessons, at lunch, in the hallways.

Did he just not care anymore?

“John.”

John looked up at him, confused as to the need for him to break the quiet. It was late, and they were in Sherlocks tower, studying before lights out and John would have to rush back to the Gryffindor commons. If he got caught then he could say he got lost, _they_ didn’t know that he knew every hallway, door, staircase and the number of stairs in the entire castle, save for the ones he’d never seen or been in.

Sherlock knew though. He knew a lot of things about John.

And it was irritating him that he _didn’t_ know why John was acting so strangely.

“What?” He asked simply, his eyes dilated slightly every time he looked up at the younger boy. He’d noticed that after a while of staying with him in the summer, they stopped doing that when he talked about Sarah. It was one of the dead giveaways about the Amortentia.

Sherlock raised a brow for a moment and glanced down at his own notes before speaking. “Do you remember the conversation we had on the night before you confronted Sarah?” He couldn’t quite bring himself to make eye contact and he wasn’t sure why.

“Of course, I remember.” John replied, his voice was mumbled and with a quick glance up it was obvious John had caught on, his cheeks tinted pink and his ears quite red.

“Then you’ll remember a crucial point regarding your feelings before you cried yourself to sleep.”

John laughed awkwardly. “God, don’t phrase it like _that._ Yeah, I remember.”

“And you don’t think that it warrants anything else?” Sherlock furrowed his own brow, he could read John like a book; why _now_ was he acting like a foreign language Sherlock couldn’t understand?

John laughed again, bitterness seeped into them. “Why would it? You don’t like me back, why would you? And I’m not going out of my way to lose my best friend.” His voice grew quieter as he spoke.

Best friend.

That term was rather new to Sherlock. He’d never had a best friend before John, he’d never had a _friend_ before John. He was almost certain Mycroft didn’t count, and even if he did, he and his brother weren’t exactly the friendliest to each other.

Yet Sherlock still knew somehow that John was a _good_ friend.

Was that why he wanted that box kept shut?

Because John was good enough. He didn’t need more.

Did he?

No.

He _wanted_ more.

He was able to ignore the existence of the box; he could keep his feelings a secret and let John keep his and nothing would change. Now John’s feelings were in the open, he was idiotic enough to put them there so why should he keep his own hidden? Was he afraid?

Sherlock’s eyes widened for a second after he realised. He was _afraid_.

“That’s an assumption.”

It was John’s turn to furrow his brow. “Is it correct?” He asked.

Sherlock forced himself to look up. “John, what’s my favourite colour?”

“You don’t have one, colours are just wavelengths of light and there’s no reason you should have a preference but if you _had_ to pick on it would be blue, the same as your house, which is the reason you picked Ravenclaw so the hat could sort you considering you fall equally into all four, _well,_ maybe not Hufflepuff.” He added a little laugh, but it was clear compulsion forced him to speak in such detail rather than his own conscious, because his face glowed redder, if that was possible.

“You just repeated the same explanation I gave you.” Sherlock replied, John ducked his head, and the younger boy smiled. “You pay attention, you’re thoughtful, you care. What you lack in quick wit you make up for in common sense. You, John Watson, you keep me right. You’re my best and only friend, and you’re the only person besides my own mother and brother to give me a Christmas present, a birthday present. Why would I not like you?”

The words, like John’s, escaped him before he could hold them back and the box in his mind had cracked open, trickling out into his voice. What was he doing? He didn’t know, or care, because the feeling in his stomach was new and interesting.

“I- uh- wow.”

“So,-“ He cleared his throat. “Are we clear?”

John smiled, still staring at his books. “Yeah we’re good.”

“Does that make us boyfriends?” Sherlock asked, abruptly.

Johns head snapped up his eyes filled with surprise and moderate delight. “Do- uh- Do you want to be? M-My boyfriend I mean.”

“Yes, I would like that.”

“Okay, then yes, it does.”

“Okay.”

 

**

 

John gripped the handle of his broom, if it weren’t for his gloves he could’ve seen just how white his knuckles were.

It was the first game of the year, Dimmock had put a lot of pressure on everyone to ensure they would win, John especially. A few of the new teammates weren’t as great as everyone would have hoped, so John as one of the more capable members had a lot of pressure.

He breathed out, loosened his grip, and focused.

They were moving, everything was moving, except him.

That changed quickly.

He slapped the ball, blocked it from the goal and sent it flying back into the hands of Dimmock, who sped back to the others goal.

Before he could stop himself he glanced to the crowds of people, skimming for Sherlock. He had a moment of disdain when he couldn’t find him. Had he not shown? It wasn’t a surprise, Sherlock didn’t much care for quidditch, but he’d hoped that, now they were boyfriends, he might come. He’d come to games before, but he’d stopped once it became boring. John supposed that’s why he wasn’t here, or why John couldn’t see him.

He kept checking back into the game, watching it, Dimmock had the ball, in a back and forth with the Hufflepuff chaser, dodging the bludgers with swift skill. He could feel his shoulders slump and his stomach fill with a sickening feeling. He couldn’t do this. Everything felt too fast.

Usually he loved this, the quickening pace, the adrenaline rush through his veins but he couldn’t feel it.

He knew this feeling.

It felt like everyone’s eyes were on him, judging him, scoring into his chest with scrutinising glares. He searched the crowds frantically for a friendly face, but all he could see were excited faces he didn’t connect to or recognise.

A strike of hope hit him, and his heart began to race as he caught sight of a raised hand in a leather glove.

He caught his eyes, and Sherlock smiled at him, nodding at him. That was what John needed, Sherlock was there, to support him. If it weren’t that his cheeks and ears were red with the cold already he would’ve been blushing.

He could hear his heart pounding in his head and breathed out again, his excitement had been reignited.

“Alright, Watson, let’s go.” He whispered to himself.

The game progressed swiftly from there.

One goal an hour in, he let out a grumble of frustration at that one swearing at himself in his head, but that one was the end of it as the game ended moments later. It was one of the shortest ones he’d played, the new chaser for the Hufflepuff team wasn’t as good as theirs, and pretty soon he was landing for touch down, to celebrate with his team.

Dimmock ruffled his hair. “Nice one Watson, you did well.”

John rolled his eyes but nodded to reciprocate the sentiment. “Cheers, Dimmock.”

“You coming to the commons?”

“Uh, yeah, you guys head on, I’ll follow.” He replied, before walking back towards the stalls, hoping to find Sherlock.

He mixed into the crowd of students, supposing he should go to Sherlock’s tower to find him. He walked with the crowd, trying to push past people, until somebody grabbed his arm, he turned but it wasn’t the person he hoped. It was Jim.

Jim Moriarty had never spoken to him before, from what he knew the guy was sketchy. His eyes were dark and piercing, and John’s blood turned cold as he stared, as if he could read into his soul.

“Not your soul, darling, just your thoughts.” He spoke, his voice wasn’t as cold as he’d expected, his Irish accent slick like oil. A shiver crawled up his spine.

“A ligilimens?” John asked, really there was no need for him to even speak if the older boy could just read his thoughts, but he was determined not to seem intimidated. He couldn’t help but feel violated at the idea, though he knew there was no use in trying to pretend he wasn’t.

“You know it, babe.” He smirked, almost enjoying the disgust that most certainly appeared in John’s mind, if not on his face. “Okay, down to business, tell Sherlock I want to talk to him.”

John raised a brow. “Why can’t you just tell him yourself?”

“Because there’s no fun in that.” He laughed, fading back into the crowd of people walking into the castle. 

Weird.

John shook his head and picked up his pace again, getting to the corridor of Sherlock’s tower, where the taller boy was waiting for him, leaning against the wall.

“You did well.” Sherlock remarked.

John blushed slightly, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I thought you hadn't shown for a bit.”

“I was late, I might have gotten lost in my Mind Palace for a bit.” He laughed awkwardly. “I’m sorry if it upset you.”

“I'm just glad you were there at all.”

“Can I have-“ Sherlock cleared his throat, staring at his feet, his curls flopped down to cover his eyes. John hadn't seen him this nervous before. “Uh- Can I have a hug?”

“My robes are minging.” John said, somehow just as weirdly nervous.

Sherlock laughed, glancing up with an eye-roll. “Do I look like that concerns me?”

John laughed, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s waist, he pressed his head into Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock’s arm found its place around his back and his other hand on the back of his neck, as he rested his head on top of John’s.

Sherlock smelt like tea and vanilla; he was warmer than John expected, and he offered a feeling of safety like John had only experienced from a blanket. Sure, he’d hugged Sherlock before, or rather Sherlock had hugged _him_ before but that was usually when he was in the middle of a panic attack and was switching back and forth between hypersensitivity and numbness.

Right now, he didn’t want to think about that. He didn’t want to think about Jim Moriarty. He didn’t want to think about anything.

He’d just won the first quidditch game of the year, and he was hugging his boyfriend.

Everything was fine.


End file.
